Hold Out Holt
by RSteele82
Summary: (An ITCHY story) A story inspired by a nugget of thought from MM33. The year is 1976. Laura Holt is twenty years old and a sophomore at Stanford University when she crosses paths with a mysterious stranger, who is as beguiled by her as she is fascinated by him.
1. Chapter 1

_**An ITCHy Story.**_

 _ **The year is 1976 and twenty-year old Laura Holt is a sophomore math major at Stanford University when she meets a mysterious man.**_

 ** _Standard Disclaimers apply: I hold no ownership or rights to the series or characters. I simply choose to borrow the characters I love to write._**

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 **** Please note: I will only be publishing one to two chapters a week of this work, as other stories are ongoing. ****

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 ** _Spring 1976_**

"C'mon, Laura, it's _Thursday night_ ," Betsy implored, flopping down on the bed across from Laura, then drawing her legs up to sit Indian style. The tall, slim… and stacked… brunette, pushed her lip out in a pout.

"Don't you think I'd rather go the party than to do this?" Laura challenged, pointing the pen she held in hand towards the papers lying on the bed in front of her. Garbed in a pair of running shorts and a Stanford t-shirt, hair pulled back into a ponytail, she lay on her stomach on the bed, surrounded by open books and photocopies printed off of the microfiche in the library. "This paper is due Monday morning and is twenty-five percent of my grade! If I blow it, I could lose my scholarship," she prevaricated. It was a small white lie, in her mind, as the paper wasn't due until the following Friday.

"It's _one night_ ," Betsy persisted. "You can work on the paper all weekend."

"Don't bother, Bets," Barbara's cool, refined voice advised as the athletically built blonde sauntered into the room, Joanna, as always, right on her heels. "You know it's not Laura's scene."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Laura asked, indignantly. Sitting up on the bed, her chin tipped upwards in affront.

"You know perfectly well what it means," Barbara challenged, taking seat on edge of Betsy's bed and crossing a pair of shapely legs. "You like to talk the talk about being an independent woman of the seventies unbound by the strictures of society, yet when it comes right down to it, you're as much of a prude as my mother."

"Barb!" Betsy gasped, aghast while Joanna's eyes flew open wide and her mouth rounded into an 'o', before an amused smirked settled on her lips.

"Barb's right, Bets," Joanna defended, flumping down onto the bed next to the other pair of girls.

"That's not true!" Laura protested. "I go to the frat parties, the sorority parties, dancing at the clubs. I protest, I march!"

"And you guard your grades as much as you do your _virtue_ ," Barbara countered.

"That's unfair!" Laura objected again. "I've had as many boys up to the room as any of you!"

"And never close the deal," Joanna pointed out, joining the fray, ever Barb's little follower. Pink infused Laura's cheeks, embarrassed at the frank reference to her sex life. She was tempted to tell the blonde to get a life and some thoughts of her own while she was at it, but her attention was diverted once again by Barb.

"Embracing the sexual revolution, my ass," Barbara mocked. Laura's eyes narrowed on her friend.

"I've done things. _Lots of things_ ," she defended herself again.

"Face it, Laura, you're a tease," Barb accused. "You bring boys back here, get them all hot and horny, but when all's said and done, if they get a hand job from you, they've scored big. You're getting a reputation and it's reflecting on all of us." Barb flicked her wrist absently. "Birds of a feather and all that." Her face turned deep red at the accusation, and she turned a pair of pleading eyes on her roommate.

"Bets—" Betsy gave her a sympathetic look but didn't spare the truth. Her roommate's honesty was one of her finest qualities in Laura's eyes: You never had to guess where you stood with her.

"It's true, Laura," Betsy told her, regretfully. "The boys at Omega Pi and Zeta have even tagged you with a nickname: 'Hold Out Holt.'" _That_ information sent Laura's formidable temper soaring. Crossing her arms, her chin tipped up in defiance, her eyes blazing.

"Maybe that more of a reflection on them than me," she countered. "Is it too much to ask that a boy know breasts are for more than groping? That a _really_ _good_ kiss, one that make you curl your toes, that you could lose yourself in, is some of the best foreplay?"

"Here we go. She wants it to be _special_ ," Barb interjected, saying the last word with a sneer and a roll of her eyes.

"Not special," Laura argued, then searched for the correct word. "Good. I just want it to be _good._ I'm not interested in having my head banged into the headboard just so some guy can get off then add me as yet another notch on his bedpost. I…" she threw up her hands and dropped them in frustration "…want it all. Romance. Foreplay. Finesse. I want the guy to remember that my pleasure is just as important as his own. Is that too much to ask?"

"Sounds like nothing but more talk to me," Joanna commented, looking at Barb for approval.

"Let's face it, Laura," Barb taunted, "You're the only one of us who'll be wearing white on her wedding day, at least legitimately." Laura's eyes widened and her jaw fell open, offended.

" _I will not_!" she objected, vehemently.

"It is what it is," Barb noted. "You're a prude," she looked pointedly at the books on Laura's bed, "And a nerd. But we love you anyway." Standing, she waved a hand to Betsy and Joanna. "Come on, girls. The boys of Alpha Beta await the…" she gave a pointed looked to Laura, "… _women_ of Four East."

Barbara departed the room, Joanna on the heels. At the doorway to their room, Betsy paused, then looked back at her roommate.

"I'm sorry, Laura," she apologized. Then she, too, was gone.

In the hallway outside of the suite, a bright smile lit Barb's face.

"Let's see if that lights a fire under her, girls."

"You didn't have to be so hard on her, Barb," Betsy criticized.

"You know Laura, Bets. The only way to get her out of her own way is by telling her she _can't_ do something."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Outside of the front door of the Alpha Beta Theta frat house, Laura looked down at herself, critically, as she ran a hand over the miniscule skirt whose hem flirted with the very tops of her thighs. The theme for the party this evening was 'South of the Border' and the tequila, along with beer, would be flowing freely. She hoped the her attire would pass the muster, as she hadn't a thing in her closet that remotely resembled traditional Mexican clothing and unlike the other girls of Four East, money wasn't expendable in the Holt household, not since her father had left, thus buying a new outfit for the evening was not an option.

So, she'd selected something from her closet that she believed would at least be suitable for a fiesta, given its vibrant, red color: A scoop neck halter dress that left her back completely bare, but whose neck hung low enough to hint at the soft slope of her breasts while the skirt displayed her well-toned legs to their best advantage… even if there was a little too much of them showing, in her opinion. She'd left her long hair hanging nearly to her waist, although she'd braided the front to one side so it wouldn't get in her way while dancing. Red stilettos and a barrette she'd fashioned out of a red flower removed from the artificial lei hanging on her wall – a souvenir from the Luau themed party Omega Pi had held in the Fall – had followed, while a pair of dangling gold earrings and a long necklace whose quarter-moon pendant hung between her breasts had rounded out the look.

With a lift and drop of her shoulders she decided she'd done the best she could with what she had at her disposal.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she reached for the doorknob and let herself into the fraternity house.

Inside, music pounded from speakers loudly enough that she could feel the beat in the floorboards beneath her feet. The place was packed with students and who knew who else, enough so that the air was oppressively hot and she wondered, briefly, what the Fire Marshal considered safe, maximum capacity. She scanned the room, finding Barb leaning against a wall, a confident smile on her face, while some Neanderthal football player put the moves on her. With a roll of her eyes, she cut through the living room, slipped out the open French doors and stepped onto the patio where most of the alcohol would be found. Spying the table that served as the bar, she walked over to it, then promptly knocked back two shots of tequila, before accepting the salt rimmed margarita one of the frat boys offered her. Her eyes traveled across the patio until they fell on the designated dance floor. Sipping the margarita in hand, she walked in that direction.

"Binky! Binky!" She grimaced slightly as she heard a familiar voice calling her name. A voice belonging to the only person who called her by the name. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned around.

"Milton, hi," she greeted, accepting the hug he offered.

"I'm so glad you came. Betsy said she didn't think we'd see you." He slung a far too familiar arm around her waist, making her tense. Milton was a good guy… and a great lab partner… but she simply didn't feel towards him the way he hoped.

"Writer's block," she prevaricated. "I thought come out, have a few drinks, dance a little..."

"Clear your mind?" he offered.

"Something like that," she agreed. Tipping back the margarita glass, she drained its contents then held out the glass. "Would you mind getting me another drink?"

"Sure!" he agreed, eagerly accepting the glass and hustling back across the patio.

"Boyfriend?" a rich, smooth voice behind her inquired.

"What?" she replied as she turned to face whoever it was who had spoken to her. She blinked, hard, when the pair of bluest eyes she'd ever seen lazily roamed over her petite frame from head-to-toe. She willed the impending blush back. "Milton? No. Lab partner, study buddy and good friend."

"Does he know that?" She glanced back over her shoulder, and watched as Milton approached the 'bar.'

"I've tried to make it clear, without hurting his feelings," she answered, when she turned to face him again. She watched as a lock of his thick, sable hair fell over his forehead and he absently pushed it back.

"Laura," she held out her hand. A bemused smile lifted his lips.

"Mick." He exchanged handshakes with her. She tilted her head ever so slightly.

"Mick? Short for Michael?" she speculated. His laugh was deep and rich.

"If you wish," he replied. She frowned in response to the odd answer, but then she visibly shrugged it off.

"Do you go to Stanford?" The question earned another laugh.

"'Cambridge," he corrected. "I've man a fond memory of my days amidst the groves of academe: The ivied halls, robed faculty, punting on the Thames." The comment earned another tilt of her head and a furrow of her brow.

"Cambridge is on the River Cam," she pointed out. "Oxford is on the Thames."

"Oxford, Cambridge. It's the education one gets that's important," came his quick reply. Pursing her lips, she nodded her head slowly, unsure what to make of the man before her. And make no mistake about it, he was a man, not a boy. She judged him to be three, maybe four, years older than herself, but there was something about him that suggested he'd lived a lifetime compared to the boys at Stanford.

"So, what brings you to a frat party at Stanford, Mick?" A single brow lifted in amusement. The lass was a curious little thing, he noted with an inward smile. Normally curiosity grated at his nerves, but in her he found it… beguiling.

"I had a bit of business in the area. The son of my… customer… extended an invite." He shrugged a careless shoulder, as his eyes roamed the patio behind her. "I was at loose ends this evening so—"

"You figured, why not?" she guessed.

"Something like that," he agreed with a wide smile, before sobering and giving her a conspiratorial look. "Don't look now, but your boyfriend's on his way back." She looked back over her shoulder and tried not to let her regret show. She'd been enjoying her conversation with Mick, but it seemed destined to come to an end. Still the reference to Milton pricked at her.

"He's not my boyfriend," she reminded him with a scowl. The frown dissolved as she watched, fascinated, when he raised a single brow at her.

"Perhaps you might wish to _tell_ him that since the bloke seems oblivious to your hints," he suggested. He nodded at someone across the room. "If you'll excuse me, I'm being called." He reached for her hand, and eyes holding hers, lifted her hand upwards to press his lips to the back of it, allowing them to linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "It's been a pleasure."

And with that, he edged his way into the throngs of students, only the top of his dark head visible as he made his way towards whomever it was that he sought.

Then he disappeared…


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: A shout out to MM33. I am enjoying this little suggestion of yours so much that I am already 15 chapters in after a week's time.**_

 _ **A couple extra chapters this week. Cheers to MM33.**_

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Chapter 3

"Milton, wait," Laura called at her friend's departing back. He never so much as looked back. "Damn," she issued the oath vehemently.

Snatching another margarita off the 'bar', she made her way towards the dance floor.

Milton had danced attendance on her for the last hour. She'd tried to politely shake him, she really had, but he'd been determined to stick to her side like glue. Even worse, he'd been acting very… _boyfriend-ly_ : Slinging an arm around her waist when they were talking to people, trying to take her hand, leaning into her personal space as though they were having an intimate conversation. She'd slunk out from beneath that arm by turning and pretending to wave at someone. She'd avoided his hand by switching her drink to the targeted. She'd put physical space between them by making it a point to stand facing him whenever possible. But he just hadn't been getting the hint. So, she'd finally taken Mick's advice and had tried to let Milton down gently.

"I care for you… very much…"

"You mean a great deal to me…"

"You're a great lab partner and study buddy..."

"You're a wonderful friend…"

"But this is not going to go in the direction you seem to be hoping it will…"

And there, she thought now, was where she had blundered, because when he'd asked 'why not' in response to that statement, she'd fumbled by telling him the truth…

"Because just I don't see you in that way. "

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ _Milton's hurt and embarrassed and you'll be lucky if you have a lab or study partner come Monday._

"Damn," she ground out again. Draining her glass, she set it on a table, then joined the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. Spinning full circle once, she settled into the rhythm of the music and set her body free, while she allowed her mind to roam.

Her eyes slanted towards the east side of the patio. Mick was still there… and he still wasn't alone.

It seemed half the girls at the party had taken one look at him and decided they wanted him to be their lover du jour.

Not that she could blame them, really. He just might be the most handsome man she'd ever met and that accent. _Oh my!_

Still, she'd been amused to see how many girls had not taken a hint from his body language alone: A polite but sterile smile; positioning his body at an angle to them, as though deflecting their attentions; the slight stiffening of his frame indicating irritation; and his eyes not on them, but drifting around the crowd. Finally, he'd resort to a ploy: indicating someone had called him, then disappearing into the crowd.

A laugh twitched at her lips. _Much as he did with me_ , she mused. Had he been giving her the brush-off as well? She didn't think so as his body language had expressed interest and it was he who'd initiated both conversation and contact.

Not to mention she'd discovered his eyes resting on her a couple of times in the last hour. Once, when he'd made eye contact with her, he'd quirked a brow at Milton's arm around her waist – the very arm she'd slipped away from a half-dozen times before already. And, the second time, she'd looked up to find his lips pursed as though trying to stop a laugh from coming forth and his eyes had sparkled with merriment when he'd spotted her diligently dodging the hand that kept seeking hers. She'd rolled her eyes at him in answer.

And, now, she felt the heat of those blue eyes focused upon her on the dance floor. She allowed herself a small, smug smile when her back was turned to him. Given the multitude of women that had hit on him that evening, she wasn't going to stroke that ego further by allowing him to believe he'd affected _her_ as well. Oh, ho. Not happening.

Was he still watching? A quick maneuver on the floor allowed her to take a peek.

Yes.

 _Well, let's see if he enjoys this._ Another nifty little spin left most of her hair lying over her shoulder, leaving her bare back nearly completely exposed. Picking up the slower, more sensual rhythm of the music playing, she undulated her hips to the beat…

"Bitch," a male voice uttered in her direction as she felt someone brush past her back. Shocked and insulted, she spun on a heel to face her detractor. She plunked her hands on her hips, fire blazing from her eyes.

"I thought I made it clear you're to stay away from me," she snapped.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Mick watched the scene playing out on the dance floor, a bit tweaked, to be honest, that Laura's dance had been interrupted by the twit who'd invited him to this… party. He was at loose ends until his flight departed on Sunday afternoon, so he'd thought he might be able to fill a few enjoyable hours by satisfying a curiosity: Were these college parties actually as wanton and depraved as oft depicted in the movies? He'd found the answer in under twenty minutes and was just preparing to make his excuses when _she'd_ appeared.

He'd not the slightest idea what it was about her that had thoroughly captivated him. Certainly it wasn't because she ran to his 'type,' for she didn't, not in the least. He preferred women who were statuesque… Junoesque even. A woman who stood closer to his own height of six-foot-two. A woman who didn't appear as though she might blow away in a slight wind. A woman with a bit of meat on her - solid, sturdy, built for a little bit of robust fun, should the mood turn in such a direction. He was a breast man, and made no apology for it - the larger the better. Breasts that that spilled from a man's hand, breasts a man could bury his face in, play with for hours on end, lapping at them, nipping them, teasing them. And, in truth, he preferred his women more on the vapid side: pleasant company, but not so sharp that a man might find himself wedded and bedded before he knew what had happened.

No, that little wisp of a lass was not at all his type. Without those staggeringly high heels she wore, he'd wager the top of her head wouldn't even quite reach his shoulder. She was positively… diminutive… with the frame and regal bearing of a woman who'd spent years practicing the art of ballet. She was so slim that it brought to mind the word 'delicate'… although he suspected she'd resent such a description being applied to her. Her décolletage, at least the tantalizing view offered up by the scooped neck of her dress, suggested her breasts might fill the cup of his palm, but little more. But, in his mind, the intoxicating smattering of freckles that covered her shoulders and chest more than made up for that shortcoming.

Perhaps he was a leg man, after all, for he'd found his eyes admiring those lovely, shapely legs of hers on far more than a single occasion on the evening. He'd been caught off guard by the pang of desire which clenched at his gut as his eyes roamed. He longed to stroke a splayed hand up their length, to feel them wrapped around his hips, his waist. He best take care, however, for if her bare legs had his pulse pounding and need coursing through his veins, then the sight of those same gams garbed in silk stockings might take him to his knees… and could inspire him to beg that she allow him to make her his, if only for one evening.

The lass was trouble, no doubt, especially when his already rampaging desire was combined with what was lurking in those warm brown eyes: Intelligence, wit, and just enough wariness to suggest that, despite outward appearances, life hadn't always been kind to her. It made her far too… simpatico.

She was a complication he didn't need in his life. His job here was done, and in just a couple days time, he'd be gone.

Not that he ever stuck around for the morning after in the first place. No, that was a hard, fast rule: a night of pleasure, then be on his way. A rule he not only adhered rigidly to, but one he made clear before the first kiss was exchanged… much as he made it clear that he'd be providing the protection elsewise no assignation would be had.

But this lass? She stirred up visions of long nights before a fire, slow seductions, endless days and nights of love making. And in recognizing that, he'd turned to a ploy often resorted to when he needed to extricate himself from an unwanted situation: a nod of his head at an obscure point across the room where people thronged, and a 'beg your pardon, it appears I'm needed elsewhere.'

He'd been free and clear, had only needed his feet to carry him to his car. Why then, had he returned to the spot where they'd first met, to admire her from afar?

The woman had to be a witch, for he'd found himself helplessly transfixed by whatever spell it was that she'd weaved around him. He'd watched, spellbound, as she'd stepped upon the dance floor and had set herself free to rhythm of the music. He known the precise moment she began dancing for him, and him alone – although she'd vow otherwise if asked, no doubt. But, when she flipped her hair over her shoulder, presenting him with that bare back and those undulating hips? The vision of her straddling his hips, riding him, while his hands stroked that lovely back sent his blood rushing south, leaving him hard.

 _Sod it_ , he swore silently. _I have to have her._ A seduction it would be then.

 _Bloody hell,_ he swore again. Something in the periphery of his eye caught his attention, and shifted his eyes in that direction. His customer's son was openly, and quite carnally, admiring Laura's sexy little bum. Irritation flashed through his eyes. He'd be damned if that Powers twit would make a play for her before he every truly had an opportunity. He moved a step towards her, then froze when a pair of potentially more troublesome thoughts kept him mired in placed.

He'd made it a point never to compete for a woman. He had far too much _pride_ for that… and what a silly notion it was in the first place, _competing for a woman_ , when there were always several other eager admirers nearby. Compete, pfffffft. So what was it about his lass that inspired him to making his attentions known before the sodding twit could get his foot in the door? Then on the heels of that thought came the second: Was he prepared to be potentially seen as a jealous suitor? That thought positively chafed.

 _Bugger it,_ he dismissed. The woman had aroused his curiosity... and more.

But, as he took that first step towards her she spun, on her heel, her eyes spitting fire at Powers.

Mick froze again and there he remained, watching as the scene before him played out.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: This chapter is rated NC-17 for sexual situations and mild sexual violence. If you are under eighteen or uncomfortable with such material, please continue to chapter 6.**_

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Chapter 5

Laura's chest heaved up-and-down, breath short from the exertion of her dancing. Drawing herself up to her full height of five-foot-five inches and, plopping her hands on her hips, she tipped her chin upwards in defiance.

Brad Powers. Starting shortstop on the Stanford baseball team, standout in the classroom, member of Alpha Beta Theta fraternity. Standing five-eleven, with his sun streaked blonde hair, green eyes, golden tan and muscular build, he was one of the most desired boys on campus. And he knew it.

The jerk.

He was also the number one reason she had wanted to bail on this party tonight.

A month before, she and the girls had attended a party at a sorority just down the row. There, Laura had caught Brad's eye, making the girls bubble over with enthusiasm.

"Oh my God," Bets had breathed, "Brad _Powers_ is watching you!"

"Nearly every girl in school would cut off their right arm to snare Brad, Laura," Barb had prodded. "Go for it!"

"If it were me, we'd already be on the way back to my room," Joanna had added.

A smile over her shoulder had brought him to her side. They'd talked, laughed, danced, and had had a few drinks. By midnight they were necking on a swing on the front porch of the sorority house. He wasn't a bad kisser, a solid seven on a scale of one-to-ten, and she'd enjoyed his company and attention enough that when he suggested they adjourn to his room at the fraternity house she suggested they relocate to her room instead. Once there, she hung the lei from the Halloween party on the door knob, a signal to Bets not to interrupt.

At first, all was fine. Good even. They stretched out on her bed, lips melding, tongues tangling, as his hand softly roamed over her back and her ass. Desire stirred in her blood, and she squirmed, pleasantly, beneath his touch. She wanted more, and didn't protest when he took her hand and laid it over his jeans covered erection. She stroked him through his pants, her lips lifting beneath his when he groaned aloud his approval. When he eased her to her back as his fingers trailed down the buttons of her blouse releasing them, she went willingly, wondering if this was finally _it._

Then, in an instant, the mood had turned from slow and seductive to anxious and aggressive. He was there, rutting against her hip as one hand shoved up her skirt, and the other groped at a tender breast. She sucked in a breath when his fingers clutched at it.

"Slow down," she murmured against his lips.

For a brief time… a very brief time… he had, then a hand had grasped her panties, yanking them down, and a rough hand fondled her most intimate of places. With a grunt, he thrust his body on top of hers, his full weight pressing her into the bed, his mouth crushing her lips against her teeth as his hands released the button on his jeans, tugged down the zipper and he freed his hard cock from his pants. Wrenching her lips from beneath his mouth, she shook her head from side-to-side.

It wasn't right. He was being too rough. He only cared about crossing the finish line. _Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am._ An ember of desire had begun to warm her, but it hadn't been coaxed into a fire. Even as inexperienced as she was, she knew her body wasn't prepared for him and that she wasn't would mean the discomfort of the first time could quickly transform into a very painful experience. That he didn't give weight to her desire to take it slow, that he didn't care she'd now completely checked out, that she was nothing more than a body that could be substituted for any other body, screamed she'd be just another notch…

And she'd always know that.

Well, Laura Holt was a notch on _no one's_ bed frame.

"Stop," she told him. He yanked his pants lower and dragged her hand between their bodies, pressing it against his erection and encouraging her hand to move. He kept a firm grip on her hand when she tried to pry it away. "Stop," she barked, annoyed now.

"You know you want it," he growled before sinking his teeth into breast over her bra. Yelping, she arched her back while pushing at his shoulders. It was a futile attempt to get away from him. He was too heavy, too strong… and too determined.

"Get off me! _Get off me!_ " she yelled, as she frantically searched her mind for any way, any way at all, to get herself out of this situation. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ she silently berated herself. Fear wrapped itself around her heart, threatened to expel the contents of her stomach, when a set of fingers dug into her thigh and tried to pry her legs apart

"No!" she screamed again, slapping at his shoulders.

"You're not teasing me like all the other guys, Holt," he warned, menacingly. "This is happening."

It was purely on instinct, when she felt her leg give way under his strength, that she grabbed fistfuls of his hair, twisting her hands and pulling with all her might. His head reared back and he roared his fury… screeching fury that turned transformed first into a howl of outrage then ended in a whimper of pain as her knee connected with his scrotum. Only when he'd automatically grabbed at himself, curling his legs up against his body protectively, was she able to shove him off her. She didn't give a damn about the whack of his head against side table as she flung herself out of the bed and grabbed the closest weapon she had a hand: the wood baseball bat once given to her by her father.

"Get out!" she ordered, swinging the bat and connecting with the metal bed frame, causing an impressive dent. His eyes widened and he pushed himself backwards on the floor, trying to escape her wrath. Raising the bat again, she brought it down hard against the floor right next to his knee. "Get out and don't _ever_ come near me again," she screamed. "Or I swear, the next time it's the family jewels!"

Throwing himself forward, he scrambled on his hands and knees past her. At the door, he shoved to his feet, his rapidly dwindling erect still wagging free in front of him.

"You're going to regret ever messing with me, bitch," he warned, as he shoved his cock into his pants with one hand and grabbed at the doorknob with the other.

"Trust me, I already do," she retorted. The door slammed behind him, and partly out of fear and partly because of the adrenaline coursing through her, she threw the bat against the door… watched as it made contact then bounced to the floor.

She hadn't slept worth a damn that night. Bets had never reappeared in their room, and all night each creak, every rustle of the trees outside had her reaching for the bat, fear-widened eyes watching the door, expecting _him_ to walk through.

She'd never felt so… powerless… in her entire life. Up until that moment, she would have bet, despite her size, that she could hold her own against any man or woman. She'd come frighteningly close to finding out just how untrue that was. The following Monday, she'd enrolled in self-defense courses at the Y. Thrice weekly for three full weeks, she begged off from plans with the girls falsely claiming that she needed to spend time at the library for her paper, although in reality she'd been faithfully attending those classes. She'd lost a great deal of sleep thanks to those classes, doing homework until the middle of the night to make up for her lost study time. But it had been worth it the sacrifice. She no longer felt afraid, helpless, but empowered.

"I thought I made it clear you're to stay away from me," she snapped now.

"And what are you gonna do if I don't?" he snarled, stepping in closer. She held her ground and her silence, her chin tipping back slightly further, diligently trying to ignore the dozen pairs of interests – some curious, some amused, a couple pairs clearly trying to discern what the building confrontation was about. Thinking he'd intimidated her, he reached out and tugged a lock of her hair. She slapped his hand away, making that smile slip. "What you need, Holt, is an attitude adjustment." Her lips thinned and she gave him a single shake of her head.

"And I bet you think you're just the guy to give it to me," she guessed, her cool tone and steady voice a stark contrast to her racing heart and clammy hands. "Need I remind you of what happened the last time you tried to… adjust my attitude?" _Breathe, Laura, breathe. Don't let him know you're afraid,_ she silently reminded herself. He cocked his head to the side and studied her. A smirk formed on his lips, replacing the smile.

"You're a real ice queen, aren't you, Holt?" he mused, stepping in even closer. "Maybe I just need to thaw you out." His arm snatched her to him, and his lips rapidly descended towards hers. Her breath caught and her stomach lurched at the thought of his touch. "Mother fucker," he hissed, as the point of a heel came in contact with the top of his foot, and ground into it. Jerking backwards, his hand came down hard against her cheek, snapping her head sideways. Instinct… and those classes… saw her fist planting into his nose.

His howl of outrage had all heads nearby turning to look at the couple.

"Damn it, Holt, I think you broke my nose!"

"I warned you to stay away from me," she reminded him in a frigid voice. Then, with a flick of her head that sent her hair tumbling down her back, she stalked towards the house with head held high. Plucking another margarita off the drink table as she passed it, she kept iron-willed control over her composure. It wasn't until she locked a bathroom door behind her, that she allowed her emotions free. Back pressed against a wall, she sank to the floor, then dropped her head against her knees…

And she cried.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

White-hot anger had Mick's lips pressing together and fists clenching at his sides, as he watched Power's hand come into hard contact with Laura's cheek. The lass was half the bugger's size, if not in height then in weight, and he'd dared put his hands on her in anger?

Mick didn't have many principles, some might say he had none at all, but those that he did have were intractable and in that single act the bugger had violated two of them: A man should never lay a hand on woman or child in anger and one should never take advantage of someone weaker than themselves. Chest rising and falling rapidly, he watched as Laura reared back a fist and planted it in the man's nose.

 _What in the bloody held had that been about?_ he wondered. He'd focused keen attention on the confrontation from the moment of its inception, his eyes reading every nuance of her body language. Her chin had tipped upwards indicating a bravery that the slight tremor in her hands belied.

 _She's frightened,_ was the first thought to come to his mind, _But she's no intention of letting him see that._ He gave a mental nod to her chutzpah.

He'd seen the flicker of revulsion when the man had tugged at her hair and he'd involuntarily taken a step forward when she slapped the bloke's hand away. Then he'd stilled, as the remainder had played out in rapid succession: A heel to his foot, a hand to her face, and her fist to the bugger's nose.

He silently cheered her pluckiness, then admired the way she stalked away, head held high.

With the threat seemingly past, he leaned his back against the tree behind him and crossed his arms, determined to wait it out until Laura chose to reappear again… and he had not a doubt that she would. Her pride wouldn't allow for anything else. The question was: What was the bloke up to? Since grabbing a stack of napkins to staunch the flow of blood from his nose, he'd been moving from group-to-group, speaking animatedly, whatever he said greeted with guffaws and high-fives. Instinct told him whatever it was afoot was both nefarious and aimed at the young woman who'd humiliated the bugger.

"Hello, handsome." His brows knitted as an unfamiliar hand was laid against his chest. His eyes trailed from hand to arm, then shoulder to face.

"Not interested," he dismissed. The blonde blinked hard, then stalked away, clearly insulted. Such rudeness normally went against his grain, but those little hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention, warning him that trouble was not far off. It wouldn't do to be distracted when that trouble arrived.

What was it about the lass that compelled him to watch for her?

To watch over her?

He had no idea, yet there he stood, glancing from time-to-time towards the glass doors through which she'd disappeared some time before.

"What's happenin' man?" a voice to his right called to him. "Enjoying our little soiree?" Arriving next to his side, Powers slapped him on the back, as though they were old friends.

"What not to like? A house teeming with beautiful women who fully embrace the concept of free love, good drinks and even a floor show," he nodded his head in the direction of the dance floor. "Ex-girlfriend?" Powers barked a raucous laugh.

"The ice queen? She wishes." Mick gave Powers' nose a glancing look.

"Looks like the girl broke your nose," he observed. "I could set it for you, if you like. Save you a trip round to the emergency ward." Powers considered the offer.

"I don't know, man." Mick spotted the fear in the other man's eyes. Made sense. Only a bloody coward raised a hand to someone not their equal or better. "Have you done it before? I don't want my nose looking like a slab of meatloaf in the middle of my face. It would kill the action, if you know what I mean."

"Mmmm. Quite the ladies man, are you? Lemme have a look." Holding Powers's head, he studied his nose.

"You know it. Foxes can't resist this," Powers bragged, holding up a hand. Mick's eyes slid to the side to stare at the hand. With well-hidden disdain, he gave it a slap.

"Right on," he offered, half-heartedly. "If not an ex-girlfriend, then why this?" he pursued. The man's nose was definitely broken and displaced.

"Man, the bitch is a tease," Powers complained. "Took me up to her room a few weeks ago. We were getting really hot and heavy, if you know what I mean," he bragged, holding up a hand again. Another high five was exchanged. "I'm all primed and ready to go, and the bitch tries to go all virgin Mary on me. Well, I ain't putting up with that shit. I mean, c'mon, I'm horny as hell now and she wants to stop? Not digging it man. Chicks like this get off on a dude begging for it. Well not me. Then just as I was about to give it to her, bitch goes all psycho on me, pulling my hair and shit. Dude, she kneed me so hard in the nuts, I thought I was gonna hurl. I don't gotta tell you, I got the hell out of there fast, man. I mean what the fuck's her problem. It's just sex. Take a chill pill already, do you dig me?"

"What a drag, man," Mick replied, drily, trying to quell his fury. No wonder Laura had appeared frightened during her encounter with the bugger, coming face-to-face with her would-be rapist as she had. His admiration for the girl moved up another notch. "Clean break," he assessed aloud. "Just needs to be set."

"You sure you know what you're doing, man?" Powers asked, his yellow streak showing again. Mick's mouth lifted into a smile, that Powers mistakenly interpreted as friendly.

"Growing up living on the streets of Brixton as I did, I'm an old hand at it. Nothing to it. A quick snap and you're good as new again. Let's take a walk, eh?" He clasped the man's shoulder, feigning camaraderie.

"Why?" Powers asked, warily.

"Setting it will hurt like a son-of-a-bitch for about half a second. No need to draw unwanted attention." Mick watched as Powers began to reconsider. He held up both hands. "No pressure… man. Same thing here or in the emergency ward, your choice. On the one hand, with me, you'll have all night to… score with one of these foxes." He fought hard to keep from shriveling his nose in distaste at the vernacular. "On the other hand, with the emergency ward, you can kiss that possibility goodbye, as you'll likely be waiting until dawn."

"Well, I can't deprive all these horny foxes of my company, now can I?" Powers reconsidered again, as he began walking towards a secluded corner of the backyard.

"Looked like you might be cooking something up for the… ice queen," Mick said, bringing them back to the original topic.

"Man, by the time I'm done with the bitch, she'll be begging the entire baseball team to screw her just so she can get a date," Powers laughed, turning around to face Mick, then peering around him to make sure no one was watching. "Let's just get this over with."

"Pleasure," Mick replied, his eyes turning cold as steel. Bracing a flattened hand on either side of the other man's nose, he snapped it back in place, enjoying the whimper that escaped the blighter's lips.

"Man, that— Oomph." Wind knocked out of him, Powers collapsed to his knees then doubled over, clutching at his stomach. "Man, what the fuck!?" he panted. He'd barely finished the four words, before a hand grabbed him by the hair, hauled him to his feet, then slammed his back into a nearby tree. His eyes widened when a bent arm pressed against his throat, pinning him against it.

"The streets of Brixton are filled with the likes of yourself: cowardly little men who exert their wills over those that are smaller and weaker than they," Mick ground out, teeth bared as he pressed his arm more firmly against the man's throat. "Men who believe, just as yourself, that a woman or child wishes to beg for it, is asking for it or any of that other nonsense you're spewing. But even on those streets there's a word for what you tried to do to that girl: Rape. I don't give a bloody damn how far the girl goes, how… _horny…_ " he spat out the word "… you are. No, means just that. You walk away then wank off or take a cold shower." Grabbing a fistful of hair, he knocked the back of Powers's head against the tree, making certain he had his attention. "Now, I've no idea what you have planned for that girl, but should anything at all happen to her, you and I will be having another little chat…" Powers head hit that tree again, making him see stars "…But next time it won't be quite so friendly. Nod your head if you understand me." The other man frantically nodded. Mick turned his head as laughter broke out in the crowd beyond them, growing louder with each passing second. The panicked look in Powers eyes spoke clearly that whatever it was the man had instigated, had already begun. "Son-of-a…" A left jab landed squarely in the man's gut, winding him, and before he could blink, a right hook landed on the side of his nose. Once again, he dropped to his knees, gasping for air. Mick grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. Bending down, he got eye-to-eye with the man, a pointed finger held millimeters from the man's eye. "Stay away from her. Don't even so much as think her name." Releasing the man's hair, Mick reared back a foot and landed it in the man's side, then watched as he dropped to the ground in a fetal position.

With a disgusted shake of his head, he whirled on his heel and stalked towards the laughter…


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

With a final sniffle, Laura pushed herself up from the bathroom floor and stumbled towards the sink. One peek in the mirror left her draining the margarita glass and setting it aside. Turning on the faucet, she yanked a wash rag of the towel rack and ran it under the cool stream of water.

She'd been a fool to think she could come here tonight and avoid Brad. It was his fraternity, for God's sake.

 _What was I thinking!? Was I even thinking, at all?!_ she berated herself.

 _No, I wasn't_ , she admitted to herself, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her own honesty.

She'd been angry, _that's_ why she'd come. The girls thought she was a drag? Well, she'd show them!

She laughed ruefully. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid._

She hadn't told the girls about what had happened with Brad. She still wasn't quite sure why. They were her best of friends, but….

Her brows furrowed as she dabbed the cool washcloth around her eyes.

She'd been embarrassed, ashamed, she admitted to herself now, and not quite sure the girls wouldn't make too light of it, or worse, share what had happened with others. She was terrified of being _that girl_ , the girl everyone spoke about with pity in their voice. She's the one who brought a man she barely knew back to her room…

She shuddered at the thought.

Well, there was nothing she could do about the bad decisions she'd previously made, but she could do something about tonight. The last people saw of her on the evening would not be as she'd walked away after her confrontation with Brad. It was time to get back out there amongst the revelers, to show them that she was not only unaffected by her altercation with Brad, but it had been of such little importance she'd already forgotten it.

Pinching her cheeks to give them a little color, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. By the time she opened the bathroom door, a wide smile was pasted on her face and she walked as though she didn't have a care in the world.

She even managed to ignore the fact that the floor beneath her feet was wobbling a bit. She had a purpose, and eyes following her and wobbly floors be damned, she wouldn't be stopped from accomplishing it. Stepping out onto the terrace, she made a direct trajectory for the drink table, not noticing, at first, the number of eyes turned in her direction or the crescendo of laughter of the crowd. Reaching for another drink to fortify herself, she looked over the backyard, only then understanding she was the object of attention for many. Taking a sip of her drink, she steeled herself for what lay ahead.

 _Never let them see you sweat, Laura,_ she reminded herself. The thought was a sentiment her father had told her regularly growing up, when she'd find herself ostracized for showing up a boy during a game.

"Ice queen," Timmy Jackson, football player and frat brother muttered, purposefully clipping her arm when he passed. Her drink sloshed over the rim of the cup and spilled down her front. Automatically she shrunk back and gasped, as the icy liquid dribbled between her breasts. She stumbled forward when a hand against her back gave her a little shove.

The laughter around her seemed to merge into a single voice… and grew louder.

"Tease," the unseen voice accused.

"Blue baller," Joey Watson, soccer player, taunted, checking her shoulder with his. The remainder of her drink spilled over, splashing at her feet. Her resolved began to crumble and her lip quivered.

"Hold out." She didn't even see her aggressor this time, a shove of their hand against her side threatening to knock her off her feet. The crowd roared as she fought to keep her feet beneath her.

"Uptight bitch!"

"Cock tease!"

"Why don't you leave? No one wants you here, Hold Out."

"Go back to high school where you belong!"

The voices seemed to be coming from everywhere. The first tear threatened to spill over as the chanting began.

"Hold-out-hold-out-hold-out—"

Then, suddenly, _he_ was there.

"Here you are, darlin'," Mick announced, loudly enough for those standing nearby to hear.

Before she had time to even fully digest his presence, his hands cupped her face, and stepping close, he drew her lips up to his for a kiss. Her hands clenched his upper arms to prevent herself from tumbling over…

And then there was nothing but him and the pair of lips teasing hers, and the shocks of electricity coursing through her petite frame. Instinctively, she kissed him back, sliding her hand up over his shoulder and weaving her fingers into his hair. Only when a few catcalls arose from the crowd did he end the kiss and draw her into a tight embrace.

"Don't give them the satisfaction, Laura," he advised in an undertone. "Follow my lead." He released her when he felt her nod, then, as he stepped back, quickly captured her hand in his, tangling their fingers together, in a show of support.

"You and _Hold Out?_ " the blonde he'd rebuffed earlier sneered. "You can't be serious." He felt Laura take the most minute of steps backwards at the challenge to their farce, and gave her hand a quick squeeze. Her eyes slanted in his direction and her spine straightened ever so slightly.

"A bit petty, don't you think, given I didn't insult you, but merely turned you down?" Mick retorted, drawing more laughter from the crowd, this time at the blonde's expense. A blush infusing her skin, she huffed and with a flick of her head, went inside the house as Barb, Betsy and Joanna spilled out of it.

"Laura, you know _him?_ " Barb asked, disbelievingly.

"Well, uh, I –" Laura stumbled, the alcohol coursing through her system dulling her normal ability to think quickly on her feet.

"We met last summer while I was on holiday in…" He lifted a pair of brows at Laura.

"Catalina," she drew out. Her eyes lit up as she caught on, and she turned to face the girls. "You know how my grandmother insists I accompany her each year. She has the time-share there… two weeks each summer…" she prompted.

"Yeah, yeah, go on," Barb insisted, her sharp eyes narrowed on the couple.

"We met the day I arrived, when she nicked the bumper of the taxi I was in with her car," Mick continued. Joanna giggled at the embellishment.

"That sounds like Laura, alright. She's a terrible driver." Laura's mouth rounded and her brows drew together, offended.

"I am not," she refuted.

"Yeah, you are," Barb and Betsy retorted in unison, then broke into giggles themselves.

Another squeeze of her hand, reminded her Mick had another purpose in mind.

"Two weeks of sand, sun…" He turned his head to regard Laura, a fond smile playing on his lips as he lifted the hand held in his to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles, "…And endless romance." Her knees threatened to buckle as desire rippled through her. Releasing her hand, Mick quickly stretched an arm around her waist, keeping her upright.

"You never said anything to me," Betsy accused looking at Laura, her lower lip protruding in a pout.

"It was…" her mind raced, trying to find the appropriate response, finally settling on a quiet, "…complicated."

"Mmmm, complicated. It was that. When our time together came to an end, we found ourselves at an impasse," Mick continued weaving the tale. "I had business matters in Europe I couldn't turn my back on and Laura—"

"The fall semester was getting ready to start and I couldn't risk my scholarship by taking time off," she stepped in, beginning to enjoy the ruse. "Between his work, my school, the distance between us…"

"We decided it would be best to bid one another adieu, given the impossibility of it all," he joined back in. He gave her a look that set her heart racing. "But, I simply couldn't forget her, try as I might…"

"Nor I him. I tried, but no one could quite measure up," she added, with a lift and drop of her hand.

"So, when business brought me so close to Stanford, and that wanker Powers invited me here this evening…" He held up a hand of his own, and waggled his head while pursing his lips, "Well, I could only hope that she'd be here and there she was." He gave Laura a heated look. "Kismet." She blinked up at him and smiled softly.

"Kismet," she agreed.

The girls of Four East all had stars in their eyes by the time the tale was complete.

"Now, if you'll excuse us," Mick requested, "It's been far… far… too long since Laura and I've seen each other last, and I want nothing more than some time alone with her." He turned to her, and extended an arm towards the doors leading inside. "Shall we, darlin'?" A pair of brown eyes glimmered up at him.

"Let's," she easily agreed. She was certain he could feel the shimmer that swept through her when his hand landed on the small of her back. Nevertheless, she pasted a jaunty smile on her lips and looked back over her shoulder at the girls. "Don't wait up," she told them, smoothly, with a suggestive lift of her brows.

The girls of Four East watched as Laura left with her mystery man, then turned to look at each other.

"Holy cow," Betsy breathed.

"Wowzer," Joanna concurred, nodding in agreement.

Into their little huddle arrived an unwelcome guest in the form of Timmy Jackson, who slung an arm over both Joanna and Barb's shoulders.

"Dude gonna be seriously disappointed taking the Ice Queen home," he laughed.

"Shut up, Timmy," Betsy commanded, in a rare show of bravado for her. "You're just ticked off because you couldn't get past first base with her."

"Yeah," Barb agreed. "You weren't man enough to make her forget _him._ "

Timmy's mouth opened and closed several times, trying to find a swift rejoinder. When he came up empty, he slunk away.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Thank you," Laura said to Mick, offering him her hand. He took her hand in his but neither shook it, nor released it.

"Giving me the – what is that American colloquialism? Ah," he hummed as he recalled. "Giving me the brush off, are you?"Her eyes widened in surprise.

"No, of course not," she refuted, ever conscious of the warmth of his hand still enveloping her own. "I just thought you might have better things to do than play knight to my damsel in distress." His discerning eye caught the flash of irritation in hers.

"Then where might we get a bite to eat and get some coffee into you, then, hmmmm?" She glanced at her wrist and found it bare, then peered at his.

"Everything on campus closed ten minutes ago. There's a great all-night diner a few miles away, but I'm in no condition to drive," she pointed out.

"Mmmm, I'd have to agree. I'm afraid I had a hack drop me off, so we're flat out of luck on that front," he mulled. "Do you have a car?"

"I do, at the dorms. They're only a few blocks away if you don't mind walking."

"Not at all," he easily agreed, "Lead on."

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes as Laura rubbed at her arms, unsure if her chill was due to the cool air or a delayed reaction from the evening's events. She'd never been so humiliated in her entire life… not even when she was twelve and Adam Halbrook had pantsed her during a touch football game. She felt… victimized, and it was a feeling that left a sour taste in her mouth. She'd believed the self-defense classes she'd devoted herself to would prevent her from ever feeling as vulnerable as she had the night of Powers's assault. In that, she had also been wrong. Never would she have imagined that words could slice at your soul just as a blade could cut flesh.

 _Sticks and stones my left foot,_ she silently mocked.

"Here, you look cold."

His words broke into her thoughts and she looked in his direction at the same time he draped the leather jacket he'd been wearing over her shoulders. She allowed herself the luxury of really looking at him. Tall, slim, beyond handsome, with a pair of blue eyes and a smile that could charm the Devil himself, she assessed… and the man made clothing look good – really, really good. He wore a pair of classic cut jeans - as opposed to the bell bottoms most men considered the height of fashion – coupled with a black belt, black boots and a white, long sleeve button down.

"In some ways, you remind me of The Fonz… absent the t-shirt, of course," she observed, aloud. His brows knitted together and he cocked his head to his side, giving her a curious look.

"What exactly is a 'Fonz'? Sounds positively hideous." Her brows shot upwards in surprise.

" _Happy Days?_ Henry Winkler, Ron Howard, Tom Bosley, Marion Ross," she hinted, receiving a blank look in return. "'Sunday, Monday, Happy Days… Tuesday, Wednesday Happy Days… Thursday, Friday Happy Days.. The weekend comes, my cycle hums, ready to race to you,'" she sang. He gave her a shake of his head along with a lift and drop of his shoulders.

"I've no idea what you're speaking of. Your voice is lovely, however," he complimented.

"It's only the most popular television series in America!" His brows lifted and he pursed his lips around a smile.

"That would explain it then. I'm not one to watch much on the telly," he shared then added, "Unless there happens to be a showing of a movie I enjoy. So, tell me how it is I remind you of this 'Fonz'?"

"You're dressed similar to him tonight, for a start," she answered, as she pointed to a white compact with convertible top. "My car." He looked it over from bumper-to-bumper.

"Reminds me of the Fiat 126's that are all about London these days," he commented, peering into a window, "A bit roomier, although not by much."

"A gift from my grandmother for being the first girl in our family to go to college," she explained. "It's safe, reliable, great on gas…" she flashed a dimple at him as she patted the roof, "Most importantly, it's a convertible."

"Allow me." He bent down and opened the passenger side door, then held out a hand to help her in.

"Thank you."

She fingered her throat as he circled the car, climbed in then adjusted seat and mirrors. Normally she'd insist that she didn't need a man's hand guiding her way or his assistance into the car. But with Mick? There was this... chivalrous air about him that seemed inborn and, as such, it hadn't occurred to her to mind.

Then again, maybe that was her still kiss-muddled mind talking and in the morning she'd feel differently, she mused, a small, unconscious smile twitching her lips. It had been a _good_ kiss, ranking in her top ten kisses of all time. _Maybe even in the top five,_ she considered. _Who are you kidding, Laura?_ she asked herself with a silent laugh. That kiss had been…

Wow.

Simply wow.

He kissed with a soft, full lip. Not too much pressure, not too little. He lips never lingered too long, but nor did they speed away. She could still feel his hand stroking her neck then sliding upwards into her hair. It had been a damn good kiss, the best she'd ever had, just the memory of it heating her blood. _Was it just a fluke?_ No. She was willing to bet that kiss had been just the tip of the iceberg and that the man could kiss her senseless if she allowed him to. The thought was an intriguing one and she wondered how she could go about testing her hypothesis. How many times would they have to kiss in order to gather data that was significant enough to confirm he was—

"Lau-ra," Mick drew out her name, his voice much louder than what seemed to be his norm. She blinked at the hand waving in front of her face, less than a half inch from her nose.

"Huh?" She gave her head a shake, and turned to look at him. "Did you say something?" He grinned and pointed at the ignition.

"Keys?" His smile widened as a flush, that he could see even in the dim light, pinked her cheeks. She rolled her eyes at herself.

"Of course." Lifting the flap of her purse, she removed the keys and dropped them into his palm.

Less than two minutes later they were driving past the frat house on the way to the destination Laura had in mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Black coffee to start," Laura recited to the waitress, "Then I'll have a bacon double cheeseburger, all the way, with fries and a side of fruit." Her brown eyes shifted to regard him across the table.

"When in Rome…" Mick offered, as he shifted in the booth, stretching his long legs out over the street and, with his back leaning against the wall, he flung an arm over the back of the booth.

"Make that two," she translated for their server.

"So, you said to start?" he asked once they were alone. She shrugged a shoulder.

"I guess it goes back to me being a 'damsel in distress.' The Fonz has a chivalrous streak as well." He laughed low in his throat.

"Oh, I don't know that I'd ascribe anything so noble as 'chivalry' to myself," he dismissed. "Believe me, my motives weren't purely altruistic." She cocked her head to the side and eyed him with open curiosity.

"Oh? How so?"

"You intrigue me," he answered nervously tugging at his ear. _What is it about the girl that inspires the truth to fall from my mouth?_ "I discovered I wished to get to know you better, and that wouldn't have been possible should they have succeeded in running you off, now would it?"

" _I_ intrigue _you?"_ A pleased smile lit her face and made her eyes glimmer. He couldn't help gracing her with a twinkling smile of his own in return. Planting her elbow on the table, she rested her chin in her palm. "How so?"

"Ego needs a boost, does it?" he teased. She gave him a rueful look.

"After tonight, it might need a complete overhaul." Most every woman he'd ever known would have been reduced to crying waterfalls after what Laura had endured on the evening: breaking the heart of a hopeful suitor, a confrontation with the man who'd physically assaulted her, then the attempt to humiliate her. But not her. Oh, she might have been on the verge of tears when she'd been surrounded by men assassinating her character while jostling her about as though she were not a person but an object of little use, but never had the first one fallen. Not even a half hour had passed and already she was able to approach the evening with humor.

"To start, I've enormous respect for those heels of yours," he offered. She stared at him puzzled, then when the memory of planting that heel in Brad's foot trickled through her memory, Mick was gifted with a lyrical laugh and a pair of brown eyes dancing with humor.

"It did make a statement, didn't it?" she asked, proud of herself.

"A very painful one, I'd wager," he agreed, dropping his feet to the floor, to sit directly across from her, a smile of approval lighting his face.

"As long as you behave, you won't find out," she replied jauntily. Almost as quickly as the smile arrived on her face, it disappeared and she was left staring down at the hands folded neatly in her lap. She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes, chagrined. "I think I broke his nose." A crooked smile lifted a corner of his mouth.

"Oh, you did," he said with a finality that made her head jerk up to look at him. He was pleased to find a look of satisfaction competing with that guilt within her eyes.

"I did?"

"Most assuredly," he confirmed. "I ought to know given I set it back in place for the bloke." All remorse in those brown eyes fled, replaced with anger.

"What did you do that for?" she demanded to know, her voice rising. It would have served the jerk right to sport a crooked nose for the remainder of his life, as far as she was concerned.

Conversation lulled when the waitress returned bearing two ceramic coffee cups and a pot of coffee. They waited patiently as she sat the cups on the table, filled them, then disappeared.

"An offer to fix his nose seemed the most expeditious way to get him alone so we might have a little chat," he answered when they were alone again. "In truth, the reason hardly matters given I broke his nose again." Her eyes widened and she sat up a little straighter.

"You did?" she drew out the question. "Why?"

"Let's just say I found his view on certain matters insulting at best, depraved at worst," he dismissed.

"Well… good." She picked up her cup of coffee and holding it in both her hands, took a sip. "What else?" she dared to ask.

"You don't back down, no matter how frightened you are." Those proud shoulders slumped again and her eyes skittered away from him to look at some innocuous spot on a far wall.

"You could tell?" she asked in a downtrodden tone.

"Not by the look on your face," he assured. _Damn,_ there was that puzzling need to protect her again. Where in the blue blazes were these discomfiting urges coming from. What was it about the lass? Shaking off the thought, he continued. "Your hands had the slightest tremor in them. I can say, with some confidence, that I don't believe anyone else noticed." She blew out a breath in relief and took another drink of her coffee. "Which, by the way, brings me to the third point." She tilted her head in interest.

"And that would be?"

"That you're predictable in your unpredictability." The thought gave her pause and her bows crinkled as she peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup. The waitress's arrival with their meals gave her time to consider the statement, but by the time the waitress walked away, she still had no answers.

"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.

"After the scene on the dance floor," he couldn't help the smile when she blushed profusely at the reminder, "Most people women would have made themselves scarce in the aftermath. But not you. Somehow I knew you'd go against the grain and would return. Your pride would demand it." Picking up his burger, he took a large bite.

"Of course it would," she retorted. "It's a man-eat-man world out there. Can you imagine what it's like for a woman? A man gets angry and it's justified, whereas when a woman gets angry it's 'is it that time of the month, deary?' Running away only reinforces the belief a woman is weak, incapable of standing up for herself." She puffed out an aggravated breath and, dropping her eyes, focused on the burger and fries before her. Grabbing the ketchup bottle, she streamed a heaping portion onto her plate, then drew a French Fry through it.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked softly. The question earned a long exhale.

"What's to tell?" she asked, lifting then dropping a hand. "I met him at a party. I had seen him around campus before, and his reputation had preceded him: intelligent, athletic, a good sense of humor. We spent some time getting to know one another. I liked what I found… or at least what he presented himself to be," she added, with some bitterness. "He invited me up to his room, I suggested my room instead." She held up a hand to stop him before he said anything. "Stupid, I know." His brows lifted at the descriptor. "Everything was fine until he turned into a Neanderthal. When I told him to stop," another lift and drop of the hand, combined with a shake of her head, "He was of another mind. I changed it for him."

"What did you do?" he prompted in a quiet voice meant to keep her engaged. For the first time since she'd begun speaking she looked him in the eyes, a defiant gleam in her own.

"Pulled his hair until he released me, then kneed him where it counts. Then the threats ensued. A couple of intentional near misses with my baseball bat convinced him that he should leave." A look of admiration appeared on his face, as she shrewdly studied him. "But, you already knew that, didn't you?"

"He shared with me his own perverted viewpoint, yes," he admitted. "I don't think he'll be bothering you again, if that's of any comfort." Her eyes narrowed upon him.

"I don't need someone to fight my battles for me, Mick," she told him. "If I'm ever to be seen as a man's equal, I have to fight my battles on my own."

"I wasn't fighting your battles," he insisted. "I was merely expressing a viewpoint that ran counter to his own." This time it was he who held up a hand and dropped it. "Women are not the only gender that faces preconceptions, Laura." The tilt of her head suggested he'd captured her curiosity, and he had.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for instance, will you ever fully trust a man's intentions after what the buggering twit put you through?" he challenged. The shake of her head was unconscious and immediate, although it took her longer to answer.

"No, I won't," she admitted quietly.

"Good," he replied, firmly, again drawing her eyes to him.

"Good?" she questioned. "Doesn't that answer run counter to your own argument about men and preconceptions?"

"It does," he agreed. "But whether I like it or not that I might be lumped in with the likes of Powers, at least at first, the world is filled with men just like him. If having to prove I'm unlike him prevents another man from having an opportunity to do what he'd intended? That's fine by me." Pushing her empty plate away from her, she reached for her now cold cup of coffee. Immediately, with a pair of fingers in the air, he called the waitress to the table. The woman automatically picked up a coffee pot and brought it with her.

"More coffee?"

"Please," he confirmed.

"Would you like dessert this evening?" she asked, while topping each of their cups off with the hot brew.

"Do you have chocolate cream pie tonight?" Laura asked. The gentle look of longing in her eyes held him spellbound and he wished, fervently, it was him she was thinking of to cause it.

"We do," the server confirmed. Laura turned to look at him.

"Split a piece with me?" she asked, hopefully. Although he wasn't normally a sweets eater, how could he possibly say no?

"With pleasure," he agreed. She took a long drink of her coffee as the table was cleared of their dinner plates and the waitress departed.

"You mentioned London earlier," she commented. "Is that where you're from?" His accent was unmistakably British, but she detected an underlying cadence that was both lyrical and full of warmth.

"I've spent a bit of time there now and again over the years." He'd have to be careful of this one, he reminded himself. She'd picked up a single nugget of innocuous information and had filed it away for later consideration.

"Spent time there, but aren't from there. Am I right?" she asked, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand.

"You are. I was born in Ireland, actually," he confirmed. No harm in her knowing that. It wasn't as if there weren't tens of thousands of men across the Emerald Isle who were referred to as Mick, he reasoned. She tipped her head to the side, thoughtfully.

"Ireland," she intoned in a voice that suggested she found the notion romantic. "Gaelic, right?"

"You are a curious one, aren't you?" he asked. He gave her a bemused smile as he lifted his coffee cup for a drink.

"If I'm going to go to bed with you, I'd like to know a little something about you," she shrugged. He sputtered and coughed when his coffee went down the wrong pipe. Setting his cup down, he reached for his napkin and dabbed at his mouth with it.

"Just like that, eh?" he managed, throat still raspy.

"That is where things are heading, aren't they? Or am I misreading your interest?" she asked, widening her eyes flirtatiously. _Positively bewitching,_ he thought to himself. He'd believed a seduction would be necessary to get her into his bed, and she'd gone and flipped the tables on him yet again.

"I can't deny the thought holds an undeniable appeal," he admitted.

"So, Gaelic, right?" she pressed on, as though they'd never taken an off-ramp in the conversation.

"Yes," he confirmed, then amended, "Although the Queen's English is far more common these days."

"Say something to me in Gaelic," she requested.

"D'fhéadfadh mé a bheith i dtrioblóid leat," he said, rattling off the first thing that came to mind.

"That's lovely," she sighed. "What does it mean?"

"You could get me in trouble, if I'm not careful," he answered, honestly. If the dimple flashing in her cheek were any indication, she was taken with the idea.

The waitress discretely dropped a plate holding the pie and the check between them, then walked away.

"Where do you live?" Cutting through the tip of the pie, he held the fork up to her mouth. The corner of her eyes crinkled and their depths glimmered as she opened her mouth and accepted the offering. When the decadent flavor swirled around her taste buds, she openly hummed with pleasure, making his pulse pick up a notch.

"That is _so good_ ," she murmured.

"Wherever the wind takes me," he answered her former question, spooning another bite into her mouth. She pointed her fork at the pie.

"Try it," she ordered, then took another bite herself. "So you just move from place-to-place?" He gave his head a quick shake then took a bite of the pie.

"I go where the job is," he explained, "And when I don't have a current… contract… " He cleared his throat, and indicated the pie with his fork, "It's, uh, quite tasty," he noted, then set down his fork. "…then I take a holiday to wherever I'm drawn to at the moment." She mulled what he'd said for a minute, then took another bite of pie.

"I'm not sure if I find the idea of living like that absolutely thrilling or completely terrifying," she confessed. She held up her fork, offering him a bite.

"I'm enjoying watching you too much," he refused with a lift of his brows to drive home the point. "Why's that?"

"I would love to travel the world, to see all the places I've ever dreamed of, but the idea of not having a home base?" She shook her head. "As much as I enjoy being at Stanford, when I go home to my grandmother's? There's just a comforting familiarity that wraps itself around me. No matter how bad the day, I feel a little better just being there."

"Were you raised by your grandmother?" he wondered.

"No," she answered, matter-of-fact, elaborating no further. The corner of his mouth twitched. _So, she can be as evasive as myself when she pleases,_ he mused. After consuming the last piece of the pie, she shoved the plate away and picked up her coffee, draining it. "Let's get out of here," she suggested, reaching for her purse then removing her wallet.

"And here I thought we were getting on well," he commented. She cocked her head at him and gave him a questioning look.

"So did I."

"Yet you insult me," he feigned affront. Her brows crinkled.

"I have?" She mentally rewound the last few minutes in her head reviewed. A shake of her head and lift of her brows indicated she had no idea how she'd done so.

"A gentleman always pays for the meal," he smiled. Eyes lighting with humor, she laughed, and dropped her wallet back into her purse.

"As a poor college student, far be it from me to argue." She took his proffered hand, and stood then watched as he dropped several bills on the table. She found, again, that she rather liked the light touch of his hand on the small of her back as he paid the check at the register then escorted her outside to the car.

"So, has the time come for us to part this evening"? he wondered, as he reached for the door handle on the passenger side of the car. She turned and leaned her back against it, preventing him from opening it. He lifted a brow in question, stilling when he saw the desire pooling in her brown eyes.

"Kiss me, again."

She needn't ask twice. From time-to-time throughout the meal the memory of her lips beneath his had flitted through his mind. Straightening to his full height, he stepped to her and lifted her heavy hair over her shoulder. A hand caressed her neck, his eyes held hers, as he slowly bent his head.

His lips whispered over hers.

He hadn't imagined it, back at the fraternity house. Despite the kiss being merely a ruse, a frisson of desire had raced through him then, as it did now. With a hum, he slipped his arm around her waist, tugging her closer, as his hand left her neck to cup the back of head. His lips settled more firmly on top of hers.

"Mmmmm. I didn't imagine it. The kiss really was that good," she praised in a mumur, when their lips parted. She tugged his head back down.

Pleasure rumbled low in his throat again.

Need suffused desire. Warning bells sounded in his head, the furthest recesses of his mind acknowledging again that he could find him in deep waters with the lass if he didn't exercise caution. Instead of backing away…

He pressed closer. He yearned to know her flavor. A touch of his tongue to her lips and they willingly parted for him. A shiver raced down his spine as he savored the taste of chocolate and coffee mingled with the honeyed warmth that was hers alone.

She did a little humming of her own, as her hands slid up his chest and over his shoulders. One hand came to rest on the back of his neck, while the other buried itself in his hair. She lost herself in his full, rich essence, her body molding to his when his hand slid from the small of her back to apply gentle pressure between her shoulders.

When their lips at last parted, he continued to hold her in his embrace and the young man who'd already acquired so much elan along his travels, stared down at the petite lass in his arms, positively gobsmacked by the feelings she stirred with him. That she blinked up at him with soft, kiss-dazed brown eyes was his undoing. So when she asked…

"What are you doing until you leave on Sunday?"

…He watched his steadfast rule of 'only an evening of pleasure' walk out the door as his mouth said, quite of its own volition…

"I suppose that depends on whatever it is that you seem to have in mind…"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Laura and Mick stopped by her dorm, where she grabbed a gym bag and made quick work of packing clothes and other essentials that might be needed in the three days ahead. After scrawling a note for Betsy that she was going away for a few days, they departed.

"Where to?" she asked, when he sat in the driver's seat and closed the door. Between time, fresh air, food and coffee she was no longer feeling the effects of the alcohol she'd consumed, but she was unwilling to test the speed of her reactions on the road.

"Downtown. The Garden Court on Cowper," he supplied. Closing her eyes she pictured the street he'd named.

"First right and then turn left on Campus Drive," she instructed.

"Should I ask what it is you have in mind?" he wondered. She cast him an amused look.

"I take it you don't like surprises?" He laughed low in his throat.

"Let's just say, I'm aroused… with curiosity." She flashed him a dimpled grin as her laughter floated away on the wind.

"Do you like the beach, Mick?"

"It's the destination I prefer when I wish to relax, yes."

"Do you enjoy panoramic vistas as far as your eyes can see?" she continued, moving a level hand from left to right.

"Certainly compared to, say, a view of a parking lot, yes."

"Warm days spent playing in the sand and water, cool evenings spent relaxing before a fire?"

"Sounds delightful. I take it you know of such a place?"

"A few hours from here," she slanted a look at him, "But you'll just have to trust me when I say it's worth every minute of the drive." Taking his eyes off the road for a second, he stared at her. With a smile lighting his face, he nodded slowly before returning his attention to the road.

"Yes, I guess I will."

* * *

Even in the hazy, pre-dawn light the view off the terrace held a promise that it would be the beautiful vista Laura had promised in the full light of day. The house was perched in the cranny of a hillside thirty-feet above the shoreline, surrounded by the hills and cliffs of Big Sur. Below, waves crashed upon the sand, fine mists of salt water carrying on the light breeze as a flock of gulls scurried along the water's edge, chattering, searching for their morning meal.

Yes, it was all she'd promised: A little piece of secluded paradise.

As Mick took in the panoramic scenery, Laura considered _him._ Her blood positively hummed after spending the last four hours in the car with him. Small touches throughout the ride, a kiss stolen when they'd stopped at a convenience store to pick up some basic staples, the laugher shared, stories of the countries he'd been to – it had all combined to be very… seductive. Even more so, much like the moth to the flame, she was drawn to him, some part of her sensing in some part of him a kindred spirit.

"It was worth the drive," Mick assessed, turning towards her, resting a bent arm on the rail surrounding the terrace.

"I promised it would be." Taking a step forward, she tilted her head back, a pair of assessing brown eyes wandering his face.

"Your family's?" he wondered, a quiet smile playing on his lips. He brushed her windblown hair over her shoulder. Palming her cheek, his blue eyes challenged her to come closer.

"My family's vacation home is a two week time share on Catalina," she reminded him. Eyes never leaving his, she answered the unvoiced dare and stepped to him. "A friend's."

"They won't mind?" He bowed his head and touched his lips to one eye… then the other. She shivered, as she gave her head a single, slow shake.

"Barb would tell me to 'go for it.'" Eyes holding his, she slid her hands up his chest, one coming to rest on his shoulder, the other ducking behind his neck to toy with the hair at his collar. He did a little shivering of his own. _What is it about the girl?_ he asked himself for the umpteenth time since they'd met.

She pressed up on her tip toes and touched her lips to his.

Need slashed through him, and all thought fled. He'd been beguiled by her from their first conversation, and the hours they'd spent traveling on the road together had proved more heady than any foreplay he'd ever engaged in. The dulcet tones of her voice. Her melodic laughter. Her quick wit and dimpled smiles. The way she'd unconsciously touch his hand, his shoulder, his thigh when emphasizing a point.

His arm rounded her waist, tugging her closer, as he changed the angle of the kiss, deepening it. With a sweet murmur against his lips, her hand left his neck, to whisper down the front of his shirt, her nimble fingers releasing the buttons as they passed. A quick tug of the material and his shirt slipped free of his jeans. He lost track of her lips, momentarily, then rediscovered them as they blazed a trail down his neck.

He drew in a sharp breath and his hands clutched at her waist when she raked her nails lightly through the thick matting of hair on his chest.

"Let's go inside," she suggested in a low voice, her breath warming his neck.

"Let's," he mumbled, gruffly.

The trip to the bedroom was a short one: Twenty feet due east, a step through the open sliding glass doors and another half dozen steps to the bed. What should have taken less than half minute to accomplish took much… much… longer, as they walk-danced the distance, pausing to kiss, to share a stray caress along the way.

By the time their feet stilled at the edge of the bed, she was utterly overwhelmed by aching need. The tender yet ardent kisses, his rich flavor, intoxicating aroma, the sensation of one hand on the middle of her back while the other caressed a cheek of her bum, all swirled around her to create a haze of sensuality that she was fully immune to in her near innocence. When his tongue slipped inside her mouth, mimicking the act to come, her hunger for him raged. Almost frantically, she unbuckled his belt, released the button and zipper on his jeans and slid them over his hips. Effortlessly, his lips never leaving hers, he slipped off his shoes, stepped out of his pants, then toes off his socks. When he sat down on the edge of the bed, and tugged her forward, she eased down to straddle his lap, her dress riding up, providing him with a glimpse of the red panties she wore beneath.

"Slow down, Laura," he murmured as his lips traced the outline of her jaw. "We've as long as we wish. Savor it."

She forced herself to draw in a deep breath, letting it out with a shudder.

Then she simply allowed herself to get lost in her senses. She gasped softly as his mouth traveled along her neck, tasted her shoulders. Discarding his shirt, she reveled in the contrast between the soft skin of his back and the crisp hair on his chest and stomach, the flavor of his skin, the sound of his quick inhale and the way his hand would flex against her back when she found a particularly sensitive area on his neck, his collarbone.

She shivered as he slipped a strap of her dress over her shoulder.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Yes, I really am going to leave you hanging there. ;) ~RSteele82**_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

He was utterly enchanted by the passionate nymph he held in his arms. The undertones of red in her hair, the speckles of color sprinkled over her neck and shoulders, the scent of honeysuckle, grass and sunshine that lingered on her skin - all of them reminded him of the rolling green hills of home and the fairies said to be prancing through gardens and woods there. He feasted on her flavor, nibbling here, trailing the tip of his tongue across her skin there, now and again drawing her flesh into his mouth to suckle, then easing away the redness left behind with a few gentle strokes of his thumb.

Slowly he slipped the straps of her dress over her shoulders, lowering the scooped neck bodice until her breasts lay bare before his eyes.

He hummed his appreciation when a thumb brushed over the sensitive tip of a nipple made it pucker beneath his gaze and she moaned her approval. Easing her forward until they were hip-to-hip, with an arm slung around her back and her hands clutching his shoulders, he dipped his head down and drew a peak into his mouth. With quiet cry of pleasure, she shifted slightly so that her satin covered mound ground against his brief covered erection. Instinctively, as he paid tribute to her breasts she rocked against him, drawing a rumble from deep within his throat.

"Don't stop," she whispered the plea.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured against her skin.

He peppered his lips over her sternum, then neck. A talented hand kneaded a breast, fingers tweaked at, twirled around the nipple as she continued to rock against him. When his mouth locked over her collarbone, drawing deeply on her flesh, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead against his shoulder as she shattered. He held her in an one-armed embrace, continuing to rock his hips, a hand stroking her hair as she shuddered with bliss.

When the last tremor subsided, she threaded her fingers through his hair and drew his head down to kiss him with tender ardor.

* * *

She slipped off his lap when he would have deepened the kiss and let her dress slither to the floor. She felt his eyes following her, both taking in her nearly nude form and silently questioning where she was going as she crossed the room. Removing the box of condoms she'd stowed in her overnight bag, she returned to the bedside and set it on the table. Standing, a hand at her waist brought her back into his embrace.

"Came prepared, did you?" he asked, with approval, his hands stroking her sides.

"I believe in taking care of myself and not relying on someone else to do it for me," was her simple answer. She slung one arm over his shoulder, so her fingers could play with the tips of his hair, while the nails of her other hand lightly skimmed over his chest. Her lips twitched smugly as she watched goosebumps skitter over his skin. A hand slid up her back and into her hair, cupping the back of her head.

"You don't miss anything, do you?" he observed, smiling down at her.

"I try not to." Her hands slid down his chest and over his abdomen before her fingers hooked under the band of his briefs easing them down. "Enough talking, Mick."

Her hand clasped around him.

* * *

He couldn't help the satisfied smile that twitched at his lips when she blinked twice after taking him in hand. His smugness lasted less than a half-second as that hand whispered up the length of his shaft and desire jolted him to his very core. With a grunt, he brushed her hand aside, lest merely her touch send him to climax.

Wrapping his arms around her, he tumbled to the bed with her and rolled her to her back. Her laughter as he did so was music to his ears, but he wished to hear her hum a different melody altogether. Pressing up on an elbow he leaned down and partook of her lips, while he teased her breasts with his fingertips, stroked his hand along her waist and over her stomach, down her thighs then upwards again. He smiled against her lips when her hips lifted off the bed in protest as his hand slid upwards again, avoiding the area she hungered for him to explore. He repeated the pattern for no other reason than to drive her mad.

She was not passive in her own right. Her fingers toyed with his hair, stroked his neck, explored his chest, teased his nipples, caressed his back, kneaded a cheek of his bum. On two occasions, after he'd teased her, a crafty hand had slipped between their bodies to caress his hardened length, making him break the kiss as he gasped, sharply, then laughed as he captured her hand and drew it away.

How so much passion could be contained within her petite frame was beyond him, but he drank of it, giving and taking eagerly.

Only when she was gasping against his lips did his mouth leave hers to descend southward to her breasts. As his lips settled over a puckered peak, drawing on it, he eased her panties down. An experimental swipe between her legs found her more than ready for him.

"Mick," she throatily protested.

With a final touch of his lips to hers, he turned his head and reached for the foil wrapped condom on the bedside table.

* * *

Her hands caressed his back, his sides, his chest… anywhere she could reach, as her lips trailed sweet kisses beneath his collarbone. Her eyes followed him as he returned to her and tore open the foil packet with his teeth.

She stilled as she watched him take the condom and roll it over his erection with practiced ease.

 _It's really happening_ , she realized, a bit dazed at the thought. And now that the time was here, she was beyond excited and, in truth, a little intimidated. Would her inexperience show? Would she disappoint? The idea of the last made her fingers flex against his back.

It seemed her entire lifetime she'd been considered 'less than'. Unable to embrace her mother's ideals that little girls played with dolls, they didn't cruise around their neighborhoods on bikes; young ladies learned to bake, not how to throw the perfect sinker; and young women should be preparing for marriage and motherhood, not rejecting those ancient social norms, she'd never served to be anything _but_ a disappointment in her mother's eyes. And her father? Well, she certainly hadn't been enough to make him stay… or contact her after he'd gone.

That Mick might find her cold or awkward or, worse, a regrettable partner between the sheets, made her heart pound in her chest…

* * *

Mick eased himself over her to recline between her legs, using care to hold most of his weight on bent arms, worried it might prove too much for her. He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers.

"Is this okay?" he murmured with concern.

Her rapid, silent nod had him rearing back slightly to study her face. With a tilt of his head, he took in her slightly widened eyes and the rise and fall of her chest. His mind flew to the events of the evening and not for the first time, a string of slurs directed towards Powers raced through his mind. His face softened as he reined in his own rampaging desire. The backs of a pair of fingers stroked her cheek.

"Laura, I'm good with whatever it is that you wish here, even if that's just to catch a few winks and nothing more."

A slow smile lifted her lips as she dragged her fingertips up his back, a hand dove into his hair. Her choice. She controlled what happened.

And he hadn't exactly seemed displeased with her so far.

She felt… empowered. A sparkle of confidence glimmered in her eyes before she tugged his head down and kissed him. She turned the tables on him, using the skills he'd displayed against him, nipping at his lips, caressing them, stroking her tongue with his, before her mouth skittered away to nuzzle at, suckle on his neck and jaw. She couldn't suppress her laugh of pleasure when he groaned.

But he still had a few tricks of his own in his pocket, and somehow she lost track of one of his hands. One minute his fingers were dancing over her breasts, the next stroking her thighs and waist, then suddenly a single finger slipped between her folds to flick at her nub of pleasure. Whatever lingering anxieties she had quickly dissipated as soon she knew only need. Instinctively, she lifted her hips.

"Now, Mick," she murmured.

Shifting, he took himself in hand as he leaned down to capture her lips beneath his. Then he was there, pressing into her.

* * *

He felt her quick, sharp gasp as much as heard it. Her back arched, her eyes closed, and her hands clutched at his back as the thin barrier gave way and he slipped an inch or so inside of her.

 _Surely not…_

Tearing his lips away from hers, he stared down at her. But before he could fully gather the thought, she dragged her fingertips down his back and grasped his hips.

"More," she whispered. He dismissed the notion, and covering her lips with his, eased back then thrust further inwards. Her back arched, and she panted as she cupped the back of his head and drew her lips back down to hers.

Good God, she was tight. He couldn' recall a time when he'd ever been so snugly sheathed by a woman. He needed more. Withdrawing a couple of inches, he thrust again.

* * *

She was impossibly full of him, gloriously so. She'd imagined what it might be like over the years, but not in her wildest dreams had she come close to accurately envisioning the sensations of being filled by a man, feeling his erect shaft moving within her. Instinctively, she planted her heels on her bed lifting her hips and drawing him further inside.

"So good," he mumbled.

He bent down and kissed her, then shifted his position slightly. This time when he withdrew and thrust again, he hit a spot deep within her that made her cry out and quake with pleasure. When he leaned over and drew a nipple of her breast into his mouth her hips bucked wildly.

"Mick," she pleaded. She wasn't sure what exactly it was she wanted, only that she wanted more. He laughed a deep laugh of a man who knew he was pleasuring the woman he was bedding.

He set up a steady rhythm. She mimicked his actions, out of sync at first, but soon finding a cadence that complemented his own. Pinned as she was by the heavy man above her, she was limited in how she might pleasure him as well. She drew her hands over his sweat-beaded back, her nails scraped over the nubbins on his chest, her fingers caressed his neck and played in his hair… and when his shoulder or neck came near, she strung kisses across his skin, nibbled at it.

Her senses reeled. It was all too much. Him. Her. His skin against hers, under her hands. His hands, his mouth, never settling in any one place, driving her arousal higher and higher.

She wanted…

She needed…

More, just a little bit more…

"Mick." She drew out his name, unsure of what it was she was even asking for.

Then his hand slipped between her legs and a finger flicked and circled over that sensitive nub.

She drew her legs up to wrap around his. Her back arched…

And a wave of ecstasy like she'd never known before crashed over her…

* * *

His entire body was trembling from his efforts to hold back his own release, wishing to see her through to the end of hers.

But he'd never felt anything quite like her climax before, her body alternately fluttering around his shaft, then clenching it, drawing him in high and tight.

The sensation swamped his senses and the stamina for which he was known fled. He could only hope he'd taken her far enough, when he buried himself in her to the hilt.

Moaning her name, he bowed his head against his shoulder, as his shaft twitched deep within her, his body shuddering in pure ecstasy.

He collapsed against her, panting, forgetting his concerns about his size being too much for her petite frame to bear.

* * *

Her legs relaxed around his, and her arms encircled him. One hand stroked his damp hair while the other, absently caressed his back. Beyond sated, her eyelids grew heavy, the movement of her hand slower.

He reared back his head, and seeing her sleepy countenance a Cheshire like grin spread over his face. He'd satisfied her, for certain. Carefully schooling his expression, he touched his lips to hers, watched as dazed eyes fluttered open.

"I'll be right back. I need to clean up a bit," he advised quietly. Closing her eyes, she nodded and hummed her understanding.

As he rose from the bed, he watched as she curled up on her side, pillowing her cheek in a hand.

In the bathroom, he removed the condom, wrapped it in a piece of tissue then threw it into the garbage pail. A warm wash cloth run over his nether regions, then a bit of cool water splashed in his face finished the job.

When he returned to the bedroom, he found Laura soundly sleeping. The irony that he'd spent most of his adulthood slipping away at this precise moment, whereas he had no such desire to do so now didn't escape him. Climbing into bed next to her, he reclined on his back, smiling when she mumbled in her sleep and shifted slightly, lying a hand on his stomach, as he pulled the sheet up to cover them.

It wasn't long before he followed her into his dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Mick woke to find the bed next to him empty, and, frankly, he was a bit discombobulated by the unfamiliar surroundings. Rolling to his back, he pressed a hand over his eyes, searching his mind. It didn't take long for the memories of the night prior to return to him.

Pressing up on an elbow, he peered at the bedside table opposite of where he'd slept.

Twelve-eleven.

Stilling, he listened to the house around him.

His keen ears picked up the sound of the surf, seagulls squawking along the shore, even the light breeze that stirred the drapes in the room beyond. Elsewise, he detected no movement about the house. Slinging the sheet back, he sat up and swept back his hair with his fingers.

Where might she have gotten off to?

As he went to swing his legs over the side of the bed, a trio of dark spots upon the white sheets drew his eyes.

 _Bloody hell._

He'd been correct, when any ability to reason had still been with him… that is before all oxygen supplying blood had rushed fully south.

Laura had been a virgin, and he wasn't quite certain with whom he was most angry. Himself, for using his skills of a seduction on an innocent; her, for not telling him; or, with Powers, whose attempted sexual assault was made all the worse, in his mind, given the girl's chaste state.

He rubbed at his face in frustration.

If he'd known…

What?

He'd have been less bewitched by her? No, that surely wouldn't have been the case.

He'd have wanted her less? No, everything about the lass had heated his blood, had made him desire her.

He'd not have taken her to bed? The question made him laugh low and rub a hand over his mouth. He'd made it a point never to befoul an innocent before, much like he'd sworn never to be there when the morning came. Just as the latter had gone by the wayside, so too would have the former. He'd have to have her, had been thoroughly unguarded to her spirit, her smile, those expressive brown eyes.

A man with more principles would have walked away, but he' never claimed to be a man with many of them.

No, he would have still have needed to make her his in that most elemental of ways, but he'd have wined her, dined her, romanced her… he'd have given her a night she'd have been able to look back on with a fond smile.

Dragging his hand through his hair a final time, he stood up and pulled on his jeans. It was only then that he noticed her bag was no longer sitting atop the dresser. Yanking open the closet, he found a mixture of men and women's clothing surely belonging to someone much older than they, presumably the owners of the home, and no bag stowed within.

Had she been so upset about the events of that morning that she'd taken her leave?

"Bloody hell," he swore aloud this time.

Had he not felt a bit like a heel before, now he felt like a buggering cad. That the woman who'd stood her ground against Powers and his cronies had fled because of him?

He roamed from living room to kitchen in search of her, finding not a single trace. He poked his head in the other bedrooms, not a soul to be found. Finally, yanking open the front door, he strode down the stone pathway…

And breathed a sigh of relief.

Her car still sat where it had been parked before dawn.

Well, wherever it was she'd taken herself off to, she hadn't left altogether. Resolved to wait out her return, he decided a shower was in order, then a cup of tea while he foraged for something for breakfast.

* * *

Laura ran down the beach with her long ponytail swishing behind her. She'd wondered since she was old enough to consider sex if in the 'morning after' she'd feel differently, somehow more adult… more of a woman. She'd found she still felt like Laura Holt: Stanford math major, athlete, and a woman who was no less determined to stand on her own.

Oh, she'd seen the girls in high school, how they'd acted after their 'first time', even a few in college: Love besotted fools who'd believed sex meant an engagement ring, wedding, home and children in the immediate future. Had those girls paid attention to the evolving world around them, they would have set those fantasies aside, as rarely did a happily ever after follow.

She, herself, had never had such illusions. Her only question had been: would she feel different.

What she'd discovered was three things: First, muscles she didn't even know she had were a little bit tight, hence the run this morning, trying to work out the knots and kinks. Second, she was slightly sore, her body unused to the continual friction the act involved. And, third, she didn't care how sore she was, she wanted to do it all over again.

It had been good.

Really good.

Fantastic.

Most importantly, that first time had come on _her_ terms. She'd never given in to the peer pressure or to the boys who'd tried to persuade her… or in Powers' case, force her. A man with experience. A man who cared as much about her pleasure as his. A man who wouldn't look at her as only another notch on his bedpost afterwards.

She'd certainly found the first two in Mick. Now, only time would tell if she'd found the third in him as well.

Speaking of the man. There he was, a hundred yards or so away, sitting at the base of the steps leading down the to beach, rolling up the cuffs of his jeans.

Her heart picked up pace for reasons that had nothing to do with her run, but she'd be damned if she'd show her hand first.

Carefully, she schooled the emotions that showed on her face as she approached.

* * *

Mick had spotted Laura running when he'd stepped out onto the terrace, a cup of tea in hand, intending to beach watch until she reappeared from wherever it was she gone off. He'd been surprised, to say the least, when a petite woman, wearing running shorts, a bikini top and running shoes had appeared on the horizon, her long hair swinging as she ran. A runner. He wasn't quite sure why the idea took him by surprise, but it had, although the well-toned, slightly muscular legs under his hands only a scant few hours before might have attested to such a pastime.

Perhaps a walk along the beach would be ideal for the discussion he had in mind. Without thought, he set his mug of tea on the terrace table, then strolled down the stairs. By the time he'd rolled up the legs to his jeans, she was less than two dozen feet away. Standing, he waited for her to approach, a soft smile on his lips. In only the short time she'd been out of doors, her skin had begun taken on a golden hue.

Her heart skipped a beat, and the friendly but neutral expression on her face faltered when she neared and realized he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt.

 _Yum._

The thoughts she'd had earlier about a repeat performance skittered through her mind.

"Hi, there," she smiled up at him, with a smile designed to mimic his own. He reached out and stroked her cheek with the backs of a pair of fingers.

"Hi. Did you get much sleep?" She shrugged a careless shoulder.

"A little. I never have been able to sleep the morning away, no matter what time I go to bed," she offered. She let her eyes roam over him. "That's not exactly standard beachwear."

"Mmmm. I didn't know I'd find myself at the beach on this trip," he reminded her. "Think we might take a trip into town this afternoon so I can pick up a few things to tide me over the next couple of days?" She smiled up at him, while shading her eyes with a hand.

"I think that could be arranged. I just need to take a quick shower, then we can be on our way." An outstretched arm stopped her as she took a step towards the stairs. She tilted her head at him, giving him a curious look.

"Think we might take a walk?" He indicated the water line with a nod of his head.

"Alright," she drew out the word. She turned in that direction as he lay a hand at the small of her back. "Is there something on your mind?"

"There is, actually," he admitted. He shoved his hands in his pockets, then turned to give her an assessing look. "Why didn't you say something to me, Laura?"

"You were asleep," she shrugged her shoulders. "And frankly, I've been on my own for some time now. I'm not exactly used to having to report my whereabouts to anyone." He shook his head.

"That's not what I mean," he corrected, turning his head to give her a rueful smile, "Although for a minute there I thought you'd run off and left me to find my own way to San Francisco," he laughed.

"That's not exactly my style, Mick," she informed him. "So what exactly did you mean?"

"Why did you tell me you'd never…" He stumbled, never having imagined he'd have this particular conversation with a woman and somehow feeling like he was treading on very thin ice should he say the wrong thing. He tried again. "What didn't you tell me you were—"

"A virgin?" she finished for him. She lifted her hands and dropped them as they continued to walk. "Because it was inconsequential, I suppose." He looked at her astonished. Stopping in his tracks he lay a hand on her arm, requesting she face him. She stared up at him expectantly.

"Laura, a woman's first time should be—"

"Different than a man's?" she challenged, her chin tilting upwards with a hint of stubbornness. "Was a big 'to do' made about your first time, Mick?" He thought about his first time. He'd been barely fourteen, and he'd rutted like a animal with a girl a few years older than he whom had been looking for nothing more than a little action.

"Well, no, but—"

"But what?" she pressed. "A woman's first time should be on her wedding night?" He shoved his hands back in his pockets and shifted uncomfortably.

"Of course not," he dismissed. "A woman has as much right to indulge in her sexuality as a man. Still—"

"I didn't need to be in love or to have some fairy tale," she explained lightly. "I just wanted to be able to look back at my first time and to know that when it happened it felt… right. I wanted to know the boy," she held out a hand indicating him, "Or man, was as invested in my own pleasure as much as he was his own." She stepped to him and lay a palm against his chest. "It was right, Mick. All of it. The right time, right place, right man." He removed his hands from his pockets and palmed her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheek.

"No morning after regrets?" he asked softly. The smile that she gave him was warmer than the sun.

"Not a one," she assured, then pressed up on her toes and touched her lips to his. When she drew back, she gave him a perky look. "Think we might grab lunch while we're in town? I'm starving." He stroked her cheek again.

"I think that can be arranged. And while we're at it, we'll pick up a bit of something to be warmed for dinner," he suggested.

"In that case, last one to the house buys."

With those words, she took off in a sprint towards the stairs. He at first feigned giving chase, then realizing how fleet of foot she was and took off in a full run.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Mick's hand gripped the outside of the passenger door, holding on for dear life, as Laura zipped around the sharply winding road abutting a cliff. He wondered, for an instant, what they would find at the bottom of those cliffs when they went over. The idea of finding out only once they began to plunge…

"Uh, Laura," he called to her over the wind racing past them, "Is your driving always so… exuberant?" He stared at her dimpled profile as she smiled wide.

"Just enjoying the challenge of the road, Mick," she called back to him. "You're not scared, are you?" He could hear the smirk in her voice but couldn't help his nervous laugh.

"Don't be absurd," he refuted, "I wake each day with a vow to defy certain death and win." He pushed himself up slightly in his seat and peered to the edge she was skirting close to. "You wouldn't happen to know what's at the bottom would you?"

Her laughter trickled in the wake of the car, as she depressed the accelerator further.

* * *

Mick hauled himself out of the Rabbit and swayed on wobbly legs. How the car had come to a standstill with nary a scratch on it was beyond him, but he was more than grateful. Drawing in a long breath, he slapped his hand against his chest a couple times and gave his head a solid shake. It took a second longer to realize he'd failed in his gentlemanly duties, as Laura was stepping up on the curb with a bounce in her step.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her brown eyes looking at him with concern, although her voice bubbled with laughter.

"I don't see why I wouldn't be," he replied, forcing a smile onto his face. "After all, there's nothing like a brisk drive to get ones adrenaline flowing and blood pumping." He stretched as though he had not a care in the world… which he didn't, now that his feet were on firm ground. She poked her tongue at the inside of a cheek and grinned up at him.

"Uh-huh," she replied, not buying his feigned ease for a second. "So, Mick, what exactly are you looking for? Big Sur isn't LA, so we won't have a wide expanse of stores to choose from."

"Swim trunks, a pair or two of shorts should do, I'd think," he mulled aloud.

"I wouldn't go too crazy," she advised, as she nudged him towards his left and onto the sidewalk, then fell in line next to him as they walked. "This isn't southern California. It's a good time of the year to be here, but it still won't get much warmer than it is now during the days and the nights can be cold."

"I'll keep that under advisement." He didn't bother to tell her he'd likely never wear whatever it was he purchased again, as he doubted it would be in a style keeping with the attire of the idle rich lounging along European beaches and Tahitian resorts. When she stopped in front of a storefront and looked at him expectantly, he glanced at the name emblazoned upon the window. "Mack's Surf Shop?" he asked, with a touch of disdain. His tone made laughter bubble from her lips.

"Why do I get the feeling you can be high maintenance?"

"Don't confuse being discerning with snobbery, Laura," he advised, amusement twinkling in his eyes as he peered down at her. "I can make do without a quid in my pocket as well as I can live with money in the bank." She raised her brows at him.

"I may have to put that to the test." A wide smile spread over his face, and he leaned against flattened palms to the glass window, effectively trapping her between him and the store.

"Do I sense a wager afoot? Hmm? I am, after all, a man who can't resist a good wager." To his utter intoxication she never batted a single lash, just continued to look up at him with that amused and slightly teasing smile. He upped the ante. "If, of course, _you_ …" he drew out the word "…are a betting woman." Her eyes glimmered at the dare.

"Are you sure you're up to it? I am, after all, a woman who expects a man to follow through on his bets when he loses." He barked a laugh when she not only tossed a variation of his own words back at him, but had managed to turn the challenge into a manner of honor.

"Oh, I'm up to it," he intoned, "And I never welsh on a bet."

"Alright," she drew out the word, growing pensive and fingering her throat as she came up with, then discarded several ideas. A smile lit her face again and she lifted her eyes to look squarely into his when she arrived at the perfect idea. "I bet you can't create the perfect evening using only what is at our disposal at the house while spending no more than ten dollars." She looked at him triumphantly when his smile faded, as he mentally reviewed what they'd purchased the evening before and what he'd seen around the house that morning when she'd disappeared.

"And if I was to win this little wager?" he inquired. The look of triumph already gleaming in his eyes shook her confidence but only momentarily. What did she really have to lose? After all, if he did manage to pull off the perfect evening, she was the beneficiary of his efforts.

"Then tomorrow, you and you alone can decide how we're going to spend the day," she offered. He inched in closer to her.

"And should I wish to do nothing more than spend the entire day in bed with you, what would you say to that?" he murmured, his blue eyes bright at merely the thought. She fought to keep her cool demeanor as a frisson of desire jolted her to the core. _A day of orgasmic pleasure is what I get if I lose? Sign me up!_

"I guess I'd say that while you're shopping, I better go buy some more condoms, just in case." She said a prayer of thanks that she sounded unaffected by the brazen suggestion. "But if I win," she lay a hand on his shoulder, "Tomorrow we spend the day doing Big Sur my way." He didn't even attempt to hide his grimace.

"All of it within walking distance of the house, I hope?" She laughed while giving her head a single, slow shake.

"'Fraid not.' So, do we have a bet?" He considered her at length, weighing the undeniable appeal of having the ravishing creature before him writhing with pleasure again and again versus the possibility of certain death should they speed along those cliffs again. _Who are you trying to fool, old sport?_ The silent, self-admonishment brought a smile to his lips and he pushed back off the window.

"It's a bet," he agreed, holding out his hand. With a confident, dimpled smile of her own, she shook his hand firmly.

"Now, get in there and shop," she ordered, adding, "It seems I have some shopping of my own to do." With that, she turned and began walking in the direction from which they'd come.

He swiveled to his right and watched the Stanford t-shirt and cut-off jeans shorts clad figure making its way down the sidewalk, the gentle twitch of her hips and the sway of her long ponytail captivating him

Bedding the woman hadn't lessened his fascination with her, as he'd anticipated. If anything, he wanted the feisty, bewitching lass even more than he had before.

* * *

Laura felt Mick's eyes on her back as she strolled down the street, and briefly considered adding an extra sway to her hips, then rejected the idea almost at once. He seemed perfectly content staring at her departing backside. She did, however look back over her shoulder at him, bestowing on him a knowing smile that clearly said 'caught you in the act'. A lift of a single brow was his lone, silent response - an 'And what do you intend to do about it?' - that had laughter tricking up from her throat again. With a flip of her head, she pulled open the door to the pharmacy and stepped inside.

She counted to twenty, then poked her head outside. Seeing the sidewalk empty, she dashed into a women's clothing shop two doors down. She had no idea what Mick might be cooking up for the evening, but in case whatever it was demanded more than casual beach attire she wanted to be prepared. It was time to put her seldom used credit card to careful use.

After her purchases were made, another look down the sidewalk showed the coast was clear. A quick trip to the Rabbit and the shopping bag was safely ensconced in the trunk. Anything else they picked up could just be tossed into the backseat for the ride back to the house. A quick look over her shoulder confirmed she'd returned to the pharmacy, unseen.

Laura didn't even bother trying to hide her smile as she stood before the shelves holding various suntan lotions and oils, along with sunscreens. Honestly, she doubted she could wipe her toothy grin off her face if she tried. The events of the last eighteen hours had been unexpected, to say the least.

But, my God, was she having fun.

 _Mick…_

Would he want protection against burning or an oil to enhance tanning? She couldn't recall seeing any tan lines on him, but then again, the room had been dim and she'd been far more interested in touching than looking. _Silly girl_ , she laughed silently at herself, vowing to remedy that later. As for her quandary, it was simply solved by plucking a moderate sunscreen and a light tanning oil off the shelves.

Of course, she ran into an entirely new conundrum the very next aisle over where a wide selection of condoms greeted her. She wasn't exactly experienced at this. In fact, her face had been left flaming red from mortification when she'd purchased the pack she'd pulled from her bag the night before.

During her two years at Stanford, she'd visited that particular pharmacy any number of times, whether to pick up an antibiotic when she'd contracted strep throat or to simply to buy personal hygiene products. Over the years she and Mr. Winters – a silver haired pharmacist who reminded her of her grandfather – had enjoyed several conversations about the Dodgers, and favorite players, past and present. That evening as she approached the register, Mr. Winters had smiled in greeting as soon as he saw her.

"I just need a minute to finish this prescription," he told her.

"Take your time. No rush," she assured.

"Did you watch the game Wednesday night?" She rolled her eyes at him.

"I wish I hadn't," she answered, ruefully. "Only Cey seems to remember how to hit a ball and don't even get me started on Yeager striking out three times on Jones's sinker. The first time is forgivable, but a second and third time? Even I knew it was coming," she huffed.

"I know we're only a few games in," he commiserated as he placed the plastic pill bottle in a white bag, then set that bag in a basket, "But it's not looking good so far." He came down the short flight of stairs. "Now, what can I help you with, Laura?"

"I just need to buy these." She slid the condoms across the counter towards him. He picked up the small packet and peered down through his bifocals. She'd watched as his eyes had flickered from the box to her, his smile had vanished, his lips had thinned, and the look of abject disapproval on the man's face had blood rushing to her face.

"Three-twenty-nine," he announced coolly. She handed him over the correct change. After depositing into the till Mr. Winters slammed the drawer closed and returned to his dispensary without so much as a goodbye or thank you.

If she'd believed herself embarrassed when her father had caught her making out with Jeremy Johansen when she was fourteen, it didn't even compare to how she'd felt under Mr. Winter's withering look.

She'd wanted to run from the store.

She'd wanted to give him a blistering lecture: She was a twenty-year-old woman taking responsibility for protecting herself against unwanted disease or pregnancy. Such responsibility should be applauded, not condemned.

What she _did do_ was walk out of the store with her head held high, carefully moderating each step to make it appear his censorship had bothered her not at all.

She shook her head, freeing herself from the memory and reminded herself she had decades of sex ahead of her, so she may as well get used to buying condoms now, because unless she caved in and went on the pill, she'd be making these purchases for a long time to come.

She turned her attention back to the display and blew out a resigned breath.

 _Alright, Holt, you're a smart woman, you can figure this out_ , she silently gave herself a pep talk.

Ribbed for her pleasure, sensitive for his pleasure, or the plain old, every day, no explanations provided variety? A dimple flashed in her cheek as the memory of that morning washed over her. Well, regardless of the condom _he_ wore, he was obviously perfectly capable of taking care of her pleasure by his own device. She'd heard enough from the girls to know boys often complained about having to wear a condom as it considerably diminished sensation. Well, since Mick was taking care of her needs, shouldn't she consider his as well?

The decision on sensitive made, she moved on to the next to be made: No size, large or extra large. She laughed softly to herself. Virgin she might have been up until that morning, but she'd dallied around third base enough times to know the man was well-equipped. Large or extra large? Extra large or large? She removed a packet of each from the rack, and read the information printed on the exterior of the box, finding it not at all helpful. She mentally reviewed the handful of penises she'd held and with a nod of her head, returned the large condoms to the shelf.

Still quantity remained, and what a tricky question that was. She picked up a second box, and let her eyes travel back and forth between the printed quantities. Her libido was screaming, _get the dozen!_ , but consumer of racy books or not, she had no real idea how many times a day man could even have sex. Was there a limit? If so, then buying a dozen condoms could imply an expectation he was unable to fulfill. She grimaced when another thought occurred right on the heels of that one: Or a dozen condoms could make her look like a sex-crazed nymphomaniac now that she'd been 'deflowered.' _Ugh._

But the packet of three came with another set of concerns. What if—

"Believe me, I'm flattered," a warm, rich voice with an exotic accent said next to her ear, before he stepped in front of her and looked down with amusement dancing through his bright blue eyes, "May I?" he requested, reaching for packet and box. She released the packages into his hands with a shrug, determined not to blush.

"Sure," she agreed, then watched as he returned the larger box to the shelf, and held up the smaller packet between two fingers.

"While I am truly… touched… that you are concerned for my pleasure," he told her conversationally, as he stepped next to her side and faced the racks, "That extra sensitivity is only possible because the latex is thinned nearly by half, which means it is also more prone to breakage," he explained as he hung the packet back up. "I don't think either of us is interested in taking those odds no matter the payout, are we?"

"Not at all." At the curious tilt of her head, he continued, pointing at the box of ribbed condoms.

"I honestly can't say if those claims are true, as I've never used one—"

"You haven't?" she broke in, surprised.

"I was taught to be a gentleman," he explained casually, "And a gentleman is always concerned with seeing to the woman's pleasure before his own." He shrugged a shoulder "If a woman needs aids to find her nirvana, well, in my eyes, that means a man is concerned about himself, first and foremost." She pointed to a box, devouring the information he was sharing.

"Reservoir?"

"A safety feature. Without it, the man's…" he cleared his throat, before continuing while her brown eyes sparkled with merriment at his first indication of discomfort discussing the topic, "… fluids, to keep it simple, could travel down the length of the condom and spillover."

"Good to know," she answered in a serious tone. He held up the box he'd selected: Large, no explanations, reservoir.

"You want protection: a standard condom with reservoir." As they turned towards the register, another thought came to him. "Oh, and Laura, don't allow a man's vanity to determine the size. A condom shouldn't be so tight as to be uncomfortable, but better that than to risk slippage and the potential consequences of that."

"I'll keep that in mind." She slanted her eyes in his direction. "You're very comfortable discussing this," she noted.

"People are sexual beings, Laura. Whether indiscriminately dipping our toes into various waters, playing the field, in a committed relationship or even in marriage, we'll be having sexual relations the bulk of our lives. I see no reason to be embarrassed discussing it, certainly when we're discussing your own personal safety, such as we were."

Conversation paused, as they stepped to the register.

"Eighteen-forty-three," the cashier announced after ringing up the three items. As Laura reached into her purse for her wallet, Mick handed the clerk a bill.

"I have this," Laura insisted.

"Nonsense. You've provided the transportation and a place to say, the least I can do is cover the incidentals."

"Alright," she agreed, tucking her wallet back into her purse. With bag in hand, they left the store together.

"Where might we find a decent bite to eat in this quaint village?" he wondered aloud, as they stopped next to the Rabbit.

"I've heard people rave about the restaurant and café at the lodge. It's only a few minutes drive," she suggested. Dropping his bag in the backseat, he rounded the car and opened the door for her.

"By all means then. Just try to get us there in one piece, please. A man should never meet his maker with an empty stomach." She smiled wide and laughed aloud.

"We'll see…"


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Laura stared at herself in the bathroom mirror.

Since the beginning of Sophomore year, she'd been considering cutting her long locks to a more manageable – and adult – length, yet she'd simply never gotten around to doing it. Maybe she'd been clinging to that last vestige of childhood? She wasn't sure. It mattered for naught, now, as when she and Mick had returned to town after lunch, she'd impulsively decided to have her hair cut while he picked up whatever he had in mind at the market. Now, the hair that once hung to her waist brushed against her bra strap… well, at least if she'd been wearing a bra.

She spun around, then with a look over her shoulder, spied the length of her hair in the mirror. She wasn't sure how she'd felt about the cut at first, somehow feeling both lightened and… naked… at the same time. But as the day had moved forward, it had – _pardon the pun_ , she laughed to herself – grown on her. The length suited her, and she'd been amazed how much less time it had taken to French braid it back before she and Mick had sunbathed and played in the pool.

She frowned at the mirror. The only real downside was that with the loss of the weight dragging her hair down into a wave, the curl had returned to her hair with a vengeance… and she hadn't packed the hairdryer that she'd need to tame it. With a resigned sigh, she pulled the front back and clipped it in a pearl-shell barrette. It would have to do.

She rubbed her hands up and down the outside of her thighs, anxiously. If she weren't so damned curious just what Mick had devised for the evening, she would call it off and haul him into bed right here and now. She blew out a small breath. The night before he'd made her blood hum with his warmth, humor, gentle caresses, and breathtaking kisses. Tonight, she was on fire, and it only took a thought of him to send electrical currents shooting through her.

It had been a… heady… afternoon. Laughter shared over lunch. An afternoon on the beach sunbathing, his large, expressive hands slowly caressing oil into her skin followed by the feeling of his skin beneath her own fingertips. Quiet conversation and glancing touches, were interspersed with an expression of concern.

"How are you feeling, Laura?" he'd asked quietly, as he'd laid on his back beside her. Casually, his hand grabbed a fistful of sand, which he allowed to slowly run out, as he turned his head to look her then away again. She turned her head and studied him as he picked up another handful of sand. She couldn't stop her quiet laugh or the lopsided smile that curled her lips upward when she understood what it was he was asking. She turned her head, pointed her nose skyward, and closed her eyes.

"I'm fine," she answered, in a conversational tone. "Other than a few muscles I wasn't aware I had announcing their presence, I'm perfectly fine." His brows lifted, although his eyes remained closed.

"It just so happens I'm an excellent masseur," he commented just as casually.

"Is that right?" she asked, intentionally adding a disbelieving tone to her voice. The idea of a massage sounded heavenly.

"If you think it would help…"

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to try," she replied, sounding unconvinced.

"Well, turn over then." She never saw the smile that split his face. His fingers reached for the strings of her bikini top, and tugged the bow loose.

"I thought you said a massage," she mused.

"Merely clearing the path of obstructions, so to speak."

With that, he'd poured some oil into his hands and began.

It hadn't taken her long to realize she'd made a tactical error. Oh, he was an excellent masseur, there was no doubt about that, but even as his fingers loosened the knots in her back, in her thighs, there was a sensual undertone to his touch that soon had her lost in the memories of his hands on her in the early morning hours of the day.

 _What were you thinking?_ she chastised herself.

When he'd patted her foot and suggested they return to the house for a swim, she was on her feet, shaking the sand from her towel before he'd finished the sentence.

She made it a point to ignore his smug smile and the amusement dancing in his blue eyes as they ascended the steps together.

Then, for the second time in less than an hour, she'd given herself a swift kick in the shin.

 _And you thought this was a good idea, why?_

The tepid temperature of the heated pool, the man whose front side was plastered to her backside as his lips moved along her neck, her shoulder… as his hand caressed the sensitive skin of her tummy and waist. Several times, she'd drawn him into a scorching kiss, but each time when she'd tried to turn around, an arm had held her firm, and his lips had left hers to drop kisses along her cheek, jaw, to nibble on her ear.

She'd practically growled the last time she turned around, only to find him suddenly gone, hauling himself up onto the side of the pool.

"It's getting late, and I believe," he leaned over and offered her a hand, as intent blue eyes met her frustrated brown ones, "That I've a wager to win."

Logically, she understood he was working towards some big build up… some seduction… a night of romance. But she wasn't feeling logical. Frustrated, yes. On fire with desire. Yes, that too. Impatient? Oh yeah. He hadn't been unaffected himself, she'd seen the proof of his own need that the swimsuit he wore failed to disguise.

She really wished he'd just get on with it already…

But was too curious to find out what he had in store for the evening to turn the tables on him.

Now, she looked in the mirror a final time. It would have to do. _She'd_ have to do.

Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, she let it out slowly, then walked through the bedroom and reached for the knob of the door leading into the living room.

* * *

Mick sat the bucket containing a decent, chilled '68 Dom Perignon on the coffee table then spun slowly, giving the room one, final inspection while issuing a silent thank you to the owners of the home who had a well stocked wine and spirits collection. The glass doors along of the back of the house had all been left standing open, letting the cool, evening breeze waft inside. A fire burned in the fireplace. Candles burned along the mantle, on the top of tables. A white, down comforter had been stolen off of a bed in the guest room, laid before the fire, then pillows stacked on one end. On the coffee table plates heaped with fruit, chunks of meat and bread. Behind those plates, three sterno warmed fondue pots, two with soft, molten cheese and the last filled with warm chocolate. The final touch: Golden oldies, suitable for romance and dance, playing over the state-of-the-art sound system tucked behind doors in the entertainment system.

It would have to do, he decided.

He'd had a bit of fun with Laura this afternoon, teasing her endlessly, driving her desire higher and higher with each touch of his hands, his lips. Oh, how he'd enjoyed watching as her shapely little bum had twitched as he'd massaged her back… the feel of her small hands clutching at the back of his bare thighs, trying to tug him even closer as his lips and mouth had grazed on her delicate flesh while they were in the pool… Hearing her soft hums of pleasure when their lips would meet ever so briefly…

Hearing the quiet puffs of frustrated desire pass her lips, he was certain unknown by her, each time he'd held her in place and his lips had sojourned away from hers again.

Laura had a deep well of passion lying within her that would be positively explosive when she discovered it… and he had every intention of awakening her to it that evening, to be the first man who was the recipient of that passion.

In the meantime, he'd give her that night of romance, the slow seduction she should have been entitled to before she'd so casually given him her innocence.

He spun on his heel and faced the bedroom door when he heard the doorknob turn, and was rendered momentarily speechless. The tip of his tongue wet his lips, as a single thought churned through his mind.

 _God God, this lass is going to give some poor bloke a run for his money one day._

When he finally regained his wits about him, his eyes met hers and he slowly closed the distance between them. Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his mouth as he bowed slightly forward then brushed his lips over the back. Looking up at her through his lashes, there was only one thing he could think to say….

"You're lovely, Laura…"


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

A faint blush spread over Laura's skin at Mick's open admiration of her. She'd selected a dress completely outside of her norm: A floor length white gown that nipped in at the waist before billowing into a full skirt to the floor and left one shoulder bare while the other as draped with a ruffle that crossed over the bodice. The dress and matching white satin heels had cost her a pretty penny, but it had been worth it and not only because of his look of approval. No, it had far more to do with the navy suit, crisp white shirt and navy tie he himself was wearing which had confirmed her instincts that something… more… would be required on this evening.

With quiet confidence and skirt rustling, she crossed the room to him, and stroked her hands down his arms while looking up into his eyes.

"And, _you_ , look very handsome," she returned the compliment. That he seemed embarrassed by her praise drew a smile to her lips, before she turned to admire the room. "You've been busy."

"Just making do with what was on hand… and ten dollars, of course," he rejoined. She laughed quietly as she bent over the coffee table, examining pots and plates.

"Fondue?" she guessed.

"Mmmmm, that it is," he confirmed, as he moved to stand behind her. "I'd have preferred to take you somewhere or to order in, but I'm afraid our little wager has made that quite impossible."

"It's _very_ romantic," she mused. "The fire, fondue, the music…" She lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket, "…the champagne. I'm impressed." Unseen, she smiled when an arm snaked around her waist, and a hand brushed her hair away from her bare shoulder, his mouth settling there to suckle lightly.

"Enough so to declare me the victor?" he dared propose. She pursed her lips, considering the suggestion. Hadn't she been the one hoping, only minutes before that he'd 'get on with it already'? Still, the idea of turning the tables on him held a great deal of appeal.

"You put a great deal of effort into this," she observed, hoping she sounded unaffected by the lips caressing her skin.

"For you? Well worth every bit of the work, I assure you," he murmured. She firmly suppressed the laugh that threatened to escape.

"Well," she drew out the word, "We couldn't possibly let that work go to waste, now can we?" she feigned disappointment, as she stepped out of his embrace. Oh, but it was difficult not to laugh when she saw his head still bowed, his lips still pursed as though pressed against her skin. He slowly straightened, and eyed her back. He hadn't intended to suggest they forgo his plans – after all, it was he who regretted not giving her the proper amount of romance prior to taking her into bed – but _still_ … he hadn't counted on her emerging from the room looking like _that_ , charging his blood.

"Wouldn't mind at all," he assured.

"No, no," she shook her head, adamantly, as she turned to face him. "You're dressed up, I'm dressed up, you've done all _this…"_ she waved a hand around the room. "Let's enjoy ourselves, shall we?" Well, what could he say to that other than…

"Then may I have this dance?" he requested, holding out his hand. She blinked in surprise at him, placing her hand in his.

"You dance? I don't recall seeing you dance last night." He slipped one arm around her waist, and clasped her hand in his free one.

"While I can 'boogie' with the best of them, should I be hard pressed to do so, I can't say I have a fondness for disco," he shared, setting a lazy, sedate pace. "I enjoy a nice slow dance, an occasional waltz, every now and again," he lifted his brows as he looked down upon her, "Providing I've the right partner to do it with."

" _Waltz?"_ she repeated, doubtfully.

"It's not uncommon for gentlemen in the more… cosmopolitan… European cities, to be versed in at least the most rudimentary of waltzes, as you might be called upon at any number of social occasions to act as partner to the hostess, or a guest who arrived unaccompanied," he explained. He mentally took note at how light she was on her feet, the grace with which she moved, and how she instinctively matched her rhythm to his. "Had I been here longer, I would have had to take you dancing." He raised his brows, and the index finger on the hand holding hers pointed upwards. "Not to one of those discotheques, mind you. I suspect we'd be quite perfectly matched."

"That would have been nice." Her voice and eyes held a wistful tone. "My father taught me to waltz when I was thirteen, maybe fourteen-years-old. I've never known a boy…" she looked up at him apologetically and crinkled her nose, while tilting her head from side-to-side "…or man… who liked to go dancing, let alone waltz and I do love to dance."

"And it showed last night," he replied, the memory of watching her the evening prior stirring his loins, much as it had then. His imagination took flight as he envisioned him in a tux, her in a ball gown, taking a twirl on the floor.

A thought which inspired him.

"Maybe we don't have to go anywhere a'tall. Stay right here." Releasing her, he strode across the room and opened the cabinets to the entertainment center, where he thumbed through the vast collection of vinyl stored there. He grunted his approval at an album, and dropping into onto the turntable, set the needle in place then returned to her and grabbed her hand, pulling her along beside him onto the terrace.

"What _are_ you doing?" she asked, laughingly.

"Give it a moment."

As if on cue, the first strands of _Moon River_ trickled through the speakers on the terrace and with it a pair of chocolate colored eyes lit up. Taking her hand, he pulled her into his frame. Using a series of right and left box turns and progressive steps, he spun her around the edge of the pool discovering she did, indeed, make a delightful partner, for she not only fit perfectly within the frame of his arms, but followed his lead with the ease of someone who'd studied dance. He was light of foot, executing easily steps some might find difficult, as he whirled her, and twirled her in a counterclockwise path around the terrace. She laughed joyously at times, at others she eyed him pensively. When the last strands of the song came through the speakers, he dipped her deep with a flourish, then slowly brought her back upwards into his arms.

"You're very good," she praised breathlessly.

"You make it easy," he returned the compliment. "Another turn around the…" he gave a rueful smile to the terrace… "floor?" A dimple flashed in her cheek, and she nodded eagerly.

They waltzed to _Tonight,_ then slow danced to _The Second Time Around._ After a final waltz to _Tender is the Night_ they fell into step with one another - a final slow dance to the notes of _It Might as Well Be Spring._

Mick hadn't planned on kissing her – had, in fact, forgotten all about his plan for a slow, teasing seduction as he'd simply succumbed to the enjoyment of dancing with her – but the color in Laura's cheeks, the joy in her eyes, the soft smile playing on her lips and the hand caressing his chest conspired to stir the embers of desire that had simmered since their meeting into a flame of need. A smile flickered at a corner of his lips when her eyes met his, and reading the intent found in the blue depths of his, she tipped her head back slightly, almost imperceptibly. It was an invitation he couldn't possibly refuse… not that he'd needed an invitation in the first place.

Eyes still locked with hers, he bent down and touched his lips to hers.

It wasn't enough, not even fractionally.

Feet still moving to the music, he leaned in again. They explored one another's lips in a way they hadn't done before with whisper soft caresses, immersing themselves in each other's taste, texture… in that current that ran between them whenever they touched. Absently, her hand journeyed over his arm, his shoulder, stoking that flame into a bonfire. Stepping in closer, his palm flattened between her shoulder blades and his mouth settled more firmly over hers. He grunted softly when her tongue slipped past his lips to tease.

Then, her lips escaped his to meander along his jaw.

"While I truly appreciate this seduction routine of yours, Mick," she murmured huskily, heating his skin, "Can we just get on with it already…"


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Mick chuckled low in his throat at the impatience threading her voice, then groaned, both hands clutching her back, when her mouth settled just below his ear and suckled.

"Bit impatient, are you?" Without conscious planning – and enjoying her ministrations far too much to put an end to them – he swept her up in his arms.

"I seem to get that way when someone spends their afternoon teasing me," she answered, tapping a kiss to his lips then shifting away to nibble on an ear lobe. He tried to conceal the stumble in his step but the soft laughter against his ear made it evident it hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Caught on to that, did you?" he asked, not bothering to deny it as he turned them towards the bedroom.

"Uh-uh," she dissented, upon seeing his intended destination. "In front of the fire." With a lift of a single brow he changed course.

"That impressed, hmmmm?"

"I appreciate it anytime someone puts in a good day's work…" she nodded her head in the direction of the blanket, "…or a good hour's work, as the case may be." The second her feet settled at the edge of the comforter, she moved behind him. She eased his suit jacket over her shoulders and off his arms. "Would you mind pouring us some champagne?" she inquired, as she neatly lay the jacket over the back of a chair.

"Pleasure," he agreed, "But first, perhaps a little rearranging is in order. I hadn't exactly planned on us tripping the light fantastic out here and somehow I think your friend's parents might be a bit miffed should we burn the house down in our… exuberance," he noted with a nod towards the Sterno.

"It's Barb you should fear, not her parents." She pretended to shudder, as she picked up one side of the coffee table and he picked up the other.

"Tall blonde? Kept squinting at us though watching for our noses to grow?" he hazarded to guess as they carefully shifted the table to sit next to the comforter.

"That's the one," she laughed. "A little more room, maybe?" she gesticulated with a hand, indicating moving the comforter and pillows upward to abut the couch. He eyed the current layout.

"Mmmm, it's one thing to have warm feet, quite another to have ones toes burned." She couldn't help but laugh again as they moved the comforter and pillows. "Now, for the bubbly," he announced, as she settled down, tucking her legs to the side beneath her dress. He handed her a flute of champagne.

"What should we toast to?" she asked. He gave the question some thought, his blue eyes sparkling when he arrived at the answer.

"To kismet," he suggested. She tilted her head at an angle.

"Kismet?"

"Mmmm, without it our paths would never have crossed." She raised her brows and smiled in acknowledgement.

"To kismet," she toasted.

He tapped his flute against hers then looped his arm through hers. She gave him a curious look as she sipped somewhat awkwardly from her glass.

"The lovers' toast," he explained. With a lift of his brows he leaned in, and allowed his lips to hover over hers while his blue eyes regarded her. "And what else are we if not lovers?" he posed, and gave her a soft, lingering kiss. When their lips parted, she emptied her glass, then, with a stretch set it on the coffee table.

"Liquid fortification?" he teased, as she stood.

"Fortification would imply fear or the need to find courage, neither of which applies to myself," she corrected, lifting her skirts then lowering herself down onto his lap. She reached for his tie, began loosening it. "No, I just intend for my hands to be busy for a while, that's all," she informed him, smoothly.

"Is that so?" He shifted slightly beneath her, getting more comfortable. He took a sip of his champers while watching her delicate hands unknot his tie.

"While _you_ were having your fun on the beach and in the pool, _I_ was thinking about _you,_ " she informed him, tugging the tie free and tossing it on the couch.

"Given the 'fun' I was having with you, I should hope you were thinking about me." He feigned disappointment in her. "A man's ego is a fragile thing, Laura." She looked at him doubtfully as her fingers slid down his shirt, releasing one button at a time.

"Why do I suspect your ego is _very_ healthy?" He merely grinned and enjoyed another sip of champagne, a sufficient enough response as far as he was concerned.

"Dare I ask why you were thinking of me… other than the obvious reason, of course." Her fingers paused and she searched his face before shrugging a shoulder and resuming her task.

"I want to be able to do to you what you do to me," she answered off-handedly. He frowned trying to make sense of what she was saying.

"You want to be able to do to me…" he laughed quietly. "Forgive me for saying so, Laura, but I don't think that's quite possible…" She frowned at him, thinking he was denying her the opportunity to learn what he enjoyed, then when his real meaning registered, she blushed profusely while shoving his shoulder with a flattened palm.

"That's _not_ what I meant," she retorted, both laughter and horrified disbelief in her voice. After quickly unbuttoning his cuffs, she tugged his shirt out from beneath the waist band of his pants. "I want to see you, to touch you… to know how you like to be touched." He shrugged out of his shirt then tossed it aside after she eased it over his shoulders. "I want to know what makes you feel good." Her hands reached for his belt while he laughed low in his throat.

"Oh, you seemed to be figuring it out quickly enough as we went along. I had to swat away those talented hands of yours a time or two if you recall." She pulled the belt through the loops and tossed it aside.

"I learn quickly…" She peered up at him through her eyelashes, and shared a secret smile with him "…and read _a lot_ of inappropriate books." His brows raised with interest at that.

"What kind of 'inappropriate books?" he couldn't resist asking.

"The kind that depict creamy thighs…" Unfastening then unzipping his pants, she tugged at them. He lifted his hips in answer. "…Engorged manhoods…" Moving backwards, she eased his pants downwards. "…And hot, velvety cores."

He swallowed hard, not only at the picture those words painted in his mind, but at the sudden realization here was yet another sexual first: A woman fully undressing him. Oh, he'd undressed more than his fair share of women, but given his assignations were just that – a quick sometimes frenzied shag… get right to it, then move on – other that a shove at his shirt… and an occasional row of buttons popping off… a quick tug at his zipper, he'd been left to unclothe himself.

Not that he minded.

But he had to admit _this_ had an intimacy to it that he'd normally choose to avoid. _What is it about this lass?_ he repeated the mantra of the last twenty-four hours in his mind.

"Mick?"

He shook himself from his thoughts when Laura called to him.

"Sorry," he apologized. "You were saying you enjoy porno stories?" With a shake of her head and a wide smile, she laughed.

"Not _porno stories_ ," she admonished, then added thoughtfully, "Well, not in their entirety at least. Romance books, novels." Her brow furrowed briefly. Porno? Steamy maybe, but surely not… "I blame Betsy," she announced.

"Betsy?" He took her hands and helped ease her back down onto his lap.

"Last night, the tall, slim brunette who was—"

"Well-endowed…" he ventured, for which he earned a roll of her eyes.

"That's her," she confirmed. "Besty's my roommate at school. She left a book lying around towards the end of last spring. _Forever,_ by Judy Blume?" she said the title and author's name, as though he might know it. A smile playing on his lips, he obligingly shook his head in the negative, that smile faltering when she drew her hands up his arms and over his shoulders. "It chronicles the first sexual experiences of a girl not too much younger than me." She shrugged her shoulders, as she dragged her nails lightly over his chest, taking note of his slight shiver at the action and the way the muscles in his chest twitched beneath her fingers. "It was… interesting… both the good and bad. So—"

"The bad?" he asked, fighting the urge to close his eyes when she ran her fingers through his hair. He watched a smile twitch at the corners of her mouth. Of course she hadn't missed it.

"Well, the boy _did_ try to burn down her house when she dumped him," she provided, casually, as she leaned in to taste the skin over his collarbone, smiling at his sharp intake of breath.

"And _that_ encouraged you to seek out more novels such as those?" he asked in mock horror. "Good Lord, next thing I know you'll be telling me you wish to give a whirl to a thing or two in _The 120 Days of Sodom."_ She laughed quietly.

"No," she drew out the word, as she dragged her fingertips down his neck. "I'm not into pain, either giving or receiving." She bent down and pressed her lips beneath his ear. "Although I have discovered I enjoy giving and receiving…" she lay her lips next to his ear and whispered "…pleasure." He captured her waist in his hands when she nuzzled beneath his ear again.

"So if I'm to understand you correctly, your vision of the perfect evening is allowing you to do whatever it is you wish with me that will cause me… pleasure?" he asked, with a disbelieving tone.

"Uh-huh," she confirmed, peppering kisses along his jaw line. _A lopsided deal if ever I've heard of one_ , his befuddled mind muttered silently.

"And I still win the wager?" he pursued. _Really, there must be a catch._

"Yep." Her lips touched his. Leaning back she encircled his neck with her arms, her fingers toying with the ends of his hair. "So, whaddya say?"

Palming the back of her head, he dragged it downwards and kissed her, long and deep. Her eyes were dazed, and both were breathless when he dropped a final kiss on her lips.

"I'm fully at your disposal to do whatever it is you please…"


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: Contains NC-17 material. If your are not 18 or are uncomfortable with such material, please continue on to Chapter 18.**_

* * *

Chapter 17

With a groan, Mick rolled to his back and scrubbed at his face with his palms before prying open a pair of bloodshot blue eyes. Turning his head, he peered at the clock. Just after eleven. They hadn't stumbled into bed until nearly dawn, yet he'd fully expected to wake and find Laura gone much as he had the morning before.

But, no, there she was, he grinned, as he rolled back to his side: Lying on her stomach, head under a pillow the sheet slung low over her hips, offering a tantalizing hint at the shapely bum that lay beneath the covers.

 _Damn._ Last night he'd had the most intense… most intoxicating… most erotic… and most _intimate_ sexual encounter he'd ever known. Easing the pillow off of her head, he tossed it aside then stretched out facing her. With two fingers he gently brushed the hair away from her face.

She'd been serious – deadly so – when she'd told him she wanted to know him, to know how to please him. She'd explored his body endlessly, starting at the tip of his big toe working her way up to the roots of the hair on his head, uncovering many of his body's secrets on her own and exploiting each of them. He thought he might explode, then and there, and he'd looked at her agog when she'd had him stretch out on his stomach, only to start all over again. Gentle nips of her teeth, sensual strokes of her tongue, arousing touches of her lips against his skin, her small hands stroking and caressing… even her fingers that ferreted out ticklish spots and used them for her enjoyment… conspired to leave him battling fiercely for control.

He'd wanted her, but she'd had other ideas, returning him to his back, then taking his erection in hand. She'd taken her time in exploring this part of his anatomy at length as well: Studying its weight in her hand, its length and girth; easing back the foreskin to dally with the engorged head; circling that head with a thumb, using that same thumb to caress its base; experimenting with different strokes and grips. His breathing already labored, his body flinching and twitching with each new touch, he'd been held spellbound when those lovely chocolate colored eyes landed on him and she'd requested…

"Show me..."

And he had. Laying his hand over hers he demonstrated how he liked his penis held, the cadence of the stroke he preferred, the sensitive spots of his shaft that when touched would leave him gasping. She'd brushed his hand away, then had taken control. It hadn't taken much. She brought him to climax by hand, all the while the rustling of her gown, the cool, smooth silk brushing against his skin, only adding to the sensuousness of the moment. Neophyte, though she might be, when it came to sex, she'd been thoroughly unphased when his climax had left streams of white, sticky emissions on his stomach and her hand, rising gracefully and disappearing from his sight as he recovered, only to find she'd reappeared with a warm wash cloth to clean him.

His heart had pounded in his chest at the action, the care and concern extended to him something he was unaccustomed to. A very small, still rational part of his mind had screamed at him then to run… make his excuses and take his leave, for the lass threatened his resolve to never allow a sexual encounter to get under his skin.

He'd brushed the idea aside. He needed her on the most fundamental of levels, one he, himself, could not understand. Had the decision not been made, when she'd carefully lowered herself back down on his lap, rearranging her skirt as she did so, then leaned down and sealed her lips to his, it certainly would have been.

Once again, her charming naivety had been on display, as she'd been determined to arouse his body immediately. She'd blushed, profusely, when he'd had to point out his body would need a bit of time to recover, in his prime or not. Then, with a declaration of his belief in equality – coupled with a sound argument that bringing pleasure to her meant giving pleasure to himself as well – he'd finally coaxed her from her gown…

Then had needed to pick his jaw up off the floor when she stood before him in a scrap of white lace and silk that could hardly be declared panties, and a matching, white, lace and silk strapless bra. The dichotomy of both innocence and seduction in those pieces of apparel made his mind swim... and a certain impertinent part of his anatomy rise again, much to his own surprise. Of course, she hadn't missed his body's reaction to her petite frame garbed in such and with husky laugh and impertinent smile, had eased him to his back and began the sensual assault on his body all over again, this time - with a few requested pointers - bringing him to climax with her mouth…. And leaving him a quivering mass of flesh as he sought to find his bearings.

But found them he had, and at last he'd eased her from the remaining pieces of clothing that kept at bay the parts of her he most wanted at his disposal. He returned the favor, exploring every inch of her lovely skin with mouth and hands, before talented fingers saw her experiencing her own shattering climax.

And before she'd had a chance to regain her faculties, he'd started all over again, this time introducing alternately feeding her bits of bread and meat dipped in warm, rich cheeses and fruits drug through molten chocolate, and using those very warm dips and the cold champagne to initiate her into the eroticism of food play when combined with sex. He took his time about it, pushing her desire higher and higher, until he'd at last settled himself between her legs, and parted her damp, hot flesh to taste her. Licking, lapping, teasing, he savored her taste as he pushed her over the edge, barely noticing the legs clamped against his head or the hands that clenched his hair in their fingers.

He'd thought to take her there and then, but she'd had other ideas in mind and had taken control once more. At her insistence, he schooled her in covering his rock hard erection with a condom, then had given her small bits of advice on how best to ride him. And, oh, how she'd ridden him, intuitively picking up on both rhythm and how to tilt her hips just so to maximize both of their pleasure, taking them both into that most sought after whirling vortex of sensation and fulfillment.

Over a period of hours, their bodies had merged only once, yet it had been the singularly most satisfying sexual experience of his lifetime…

And already he was wondering how they might match it again… or exceed it.

A smile lifting his lips, he bent over and scattered kisses along her spine. He knew the moment she stirred, had her quiet moan not told him, the twitching of her sexy little bum would have. Easing upwards, he prevented her from rolling to her back by spooning himself around her backside. He plucked, he teased, he fondled until she was grinding against him and gasping.

"Mick…" she moaned.

He needed no other encouragement. Reaching across her, he emptied the last condom from the box, unwrapped it and hurriedly rolled it on. Lifting her leg back to rest over his hip, he slowly entered her from behind.

"Laura."

He murmured her name as her hot, tight depths surrounded him. Slipping a hand between her legs, he stroked the bundle of nerves there in time with his thrusts. In short order, she cried out, and he groaned as her muscles first clamped down on his erection, then fluttered around it. Once her quakes had subsided, he pulled out, she protesting all the while, then keeping her on her side with one hand laid against her waist, straddled one of her thighs and lifted her other leg over his shoulder.

He slid back inside. He gyrated his hips until she cried out and arched her back. Having discovered the spot she needed, he pistoned his hips, circled them, until with a deep guttural moan, she climaxed again. This time he allowed her to take him over the most sought after cliff with her, dropping her leg and gathering her close as their bodies shuddered together. Collapsing against her, their bodies still joined, he panted against her neck while her hands caressed his back and head.

"That was some wakeup," she commented, breathlessly.

He laughed low in his throat, then lifting his head, leaned down and leisurely kissed her. When their lips parted, he took in her flushed cheeks and dazed brown eyes. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he prepared to suggest they go to town and find some sustenance.

What came out of his mouth was…

"What's say I delay my return to Europe a day and we spend tomorrow in San Francisco, hmmmm?"


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

No one was more shocked than Mick at the invitation he'd extended, although, given the expression on Laura's face, she was nearly as flummoxed as he. _Where in the bloody hell did that come from?_ She blinked up at him, and then, as though he hadn't been thrown off-balance enough by the words that had emerged from his mouth, she laughed low in her throat.

"Do you often extend invitations right after great sex?" she wondered aloud, around her laughter. Despite not knowing what had gotten into him, the comment earned her a scowl.

"Actually, quite the opposite. I've never done so before," he answered, as he eased his body from hers, then turned to sit up. Reaching for a Kleenex on the bedside table, he removed the condom and wrapped it up, before tossing it in the trash. As he prepared to stand, a hand against his shoulder stilled him.

"Were you serious about wanting to spend the day in San Francisco?" He gave the matter some thought, and found that he was. Turning his head, he looked back over his shoulder at her.

"The idea of exploring San Francisco with you holds an undeniable appeal," he admitted. She mentally reviewed her class schedule and determined there was nothing too pressing. It was rare that she skipped class, so one day would do no harm.

"Then, yes," she agreed, "But under one condition." His brows drew together again at that. _Perhaps, the invitation was a mistake after all._

"And what might that be?" he asked cautiously. Her laughter filled the room. If ever a man looked like he'd just found himself ensnared in a trap, it was the man before her.

"You feed me. I'm starving." Laughing himself, he stood, then swooped his head down to steal a kiss, before lifting a pair of brows at her.

"Now that I can do."

* * *

They dined at an outside café overlooking the peaks and valleys of Big Sur. While they waited on their meals, Laura kicked back in her chair and propped her feet on the lower rung of the railing. With a casual shrug of his shoulder, Mick mimicked her position, although on a higher rung. _When in Rome._

"Is your work schedule so flexible that you can just take off at whim?" Laura inquired. His eyes slanted towards her, then returned to the scenery before them as he sipped at his water.

"Given I work for myself, it's as flexible as I wish it to be," he smiled. She cocked her head at the answer.

"Exactly how old are you?" she asked. "I had you pegged for twenty-four, maybe twenty-five."

"Perhaps I should ask the same of you," he mulled. "Then again, I don't know that I'll ever be able to look myself in the mirror again if you tell me you're a seventeen-year-old prodigy from the cornfields of New Mexico."

"Hardly. I'm twenty," she laughed, then added, "And I believe you mean Nebraska."

"Nebraska? I thought Nebraska was the potato capital of the States."

"That's Idaho," she corrected. "The question at hand, Mick?"

"Twenty-three. Why do you ask?" Taking a sip of her water, she shrugged a shoulder.

"You have your own business, travel extensively. That's… impressive... for someone of your age," she complimented. "I hope to be in much the same situation one day."

"Oh? And what is it you wish to do?" She beamed in response to the question.

"I'm going to be a licensed private detective and own my own agency one day," she shared proudly.

"A dick? Do you intend to pack a rod as well?" Laura threw back her head and laughed, then turned to look at him with merriment in her eyes.

"Being a private detective requires more brains than brawn, Mick," she schooled. "It's not like what you see depicted in the movies or even in a Raymond Chandler novel. It's far more Nancy Drew than Sam Spade." Conversation paused while the waiter delivered their food.

"Nancy Drew?"he asked with curiosity, once they were alone again. Picking up his fork, he stabbed a piece of broccoli.

"A teenaged detective featured in a series of books written by Carolyn Keene," she provided, as she lifted a triangle of her triple-decker club sandwich. A smile lit her face again. "My grandmother introduced me to the series when I was eleven-years-old, and every year since I receive a new book on my birthday and at Christmas." She chuckled, and gave him a conspiratorial look. "I never had the heart to tell her that after reading that first book I read the entire series by the end of summer vacation." She took a bite of her sandwich.

"I take it she is supportive of your becoming a…" he waved his fork in the air as he searched for the term she'd used, "…private detective?"

"My grandmother has always told me I can be anything I wish to be," she confirmed, then added, drily, "Unlike my mother."

"Oh? Feels it's too dangerous?" he speculated. She snorted around the French fry in her mouth.

"There are many things my mother believes a woman should be, none of which I am," she replied, with a touch of bitterness in her tone. He raised his brows in surprise as he chewed.

"And what is it she thinks a woman should be?" She puffed out a breath, while dragging a fry through catsup.

"A wife and mother, first and foremost, and if she must work: secretary, dental hygienist, bank teller… something 'respectable.'"

"And your father? What does he think?" She chewed one her French fry at length, selecting her words carefully.

"He's chosen to stay out of it," she finally answered. "What about you? Do your parents approve of your career choices?" Raising his glass he took a long drink before answering.

"So far as I know they have no opinion one way or the other. I have to say, Laura," he pointed his fork in the direction of the food sitting in front of her, "I don't believe I've ever known someone quite so small as you to eat so much." The comment earned him a bemused smile and a lift of her brows.

"If I remember correctly, I wore more of our dinner last night than we ate," she pointed out, before taking another big bite of her club. He laughed warmly at her retort.

"Mmm, I guess you did, at that. Tell me, Laura, do you intend to marry and have a house full of little tykes one day?"

"Little tykes," she mused. Picking up her malt, she leaned back in her chair, and sipped on her malt as she considered the question, ultimately giving her head a slow shake and her shoulders a shrug. "I'm not sure I even believe in marriage. Either two people want to be in a relationship or they don't, and a piece of paper isn't going to make someone stick around if they wish to leave. In many ways, that piece of paper just makes the end all the more bitter."

"And children?" he pursued as he took another bite of his pork chop.

"Maybe one day…" her brow furrowed "Then again, maybe not. Unlike most of my friends, I've neither contemplated the names of my future children nor have I been the neighborhood babysitter. The only children I've ever had the desire to be around were the ones I played with when I was a child myself. No. A career, starting my own agency, that's the dream. You? Marriage? Children?" He laughed low in his throat.

"Sworn both off," he answered bluntly, honestly. "I've no desire to tie myself down to one place or one person."

"I understand." A look of longing passed over her face. "Truth be told, I'm more than a little jealous: To be able to pack up and go wherever in the world I wish?" He raised his brows as he took another bite of his food.

"I take it you haven't traveled much?"

"At all," she corrected. "Born here, raised here, and except for the few times we went to Connecticut at Christmas, have never left." A sudden smile sparkled in her eyes. "I have my passport though, so one day." He bestowed a matching smile upon her.

"And if you could go anywhere you wish, where would that be?"

"Paris," she sighed. "I've always wanted to see Paris."

"The Louvre, Musée d'Orsay, Les Invalides?" he guessed.

"Oh, I'm sure I'd find time to tour the museums. But no. The Butte Montemarte, Luxembourg Palace, Palace de Versailles, Sacré Cœur Basilica, Nótre Dame, Père Lachaise and, of course, the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées."

"Palaces, cathedrals and a cemetery. You've a bit of the romantic in you, eh?" She tilted her head to the side and gave the suggestion some consideration and found it held merit.

"I'd never thought of it quite those terms, but, yes, I suppose so." Her eyes lit up. "However, I'd forgo all the rest to see a performance at the Opera Bastille," she added, dreamily.

"The ballet," he smiled.

" _Yes_ ," she breathed, then plopped the last French fry into her mouth. Lifting a hand, he signaled their waiter for the bill

"Dessert?" Pursing her lips, she mulled the idea briefly then dismissed it.

"Not right now."

"Then might I suggest a stop by the travel agency on the way back to the house? I need to change my flight and I'd like to make reservations for us at a decent hotel."

"Alright," she easily agreed.

"Besides, I do believe there's a wager on the table." Lifting her hand off the table, he pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles and waggled his brows at her. She blushed prettily, as he'd intended.

Positively captivating.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Despite Mick's implication they'd spend the day in bed, that hadn't been the case at all, Laura mused, as she sat in the passenger seat of the Rabbit with her feet propped up on the edge of the dash, map on her lap and playing navigator to his driver as they entered the outskirts of San Francisco.

When they'd returned to the house in Big Sur, they'd gone to the beach for a lazy stroll, working off a bit of the lunch they'd consumed. Somehow, and she still wasn't quite sure how she'd managed it, she'd convinced Mick to put to use some of the surf gear stored in the house's garage. They'd donned wetsuits to insulate themselves from the cold Pacific waters then had toted the boards back down the flight of stairs. For a man who was so comfortable in his own skin and seemed undaunted by everything, surfing had proven not to come naturally to him. After the tenth or eleventh time he'd tumbled unceremoniously and ungracefully from the board into the drink, he'd raised the white flag and had retreated to the sandy shore where he sat watching while she caught waves.

Her eyes slanted towards him surreptitiously. The man was positively delicious in a wetsuit, she mused.

After she'd thrown in the towel, they'd climbed those stairs back up to the house and she'd astounded him – much to her utter delight – when she'd stripped off her wetsuit next to the pool and had dove into the heated water bare as the day she was born.

"Aren't you coming?" she'd beckoned, an impish smile on her face. His own smile rivaled the warmth of the sun, as he'd quickly peeled his own wetsuit off and dove in at her invitation.

"You are full of surprises, aren't you?" he'd marveled, laughing while capturing her around her waist and tapping his lips against her shoulder.

They hadn't 'done the deed,' as she'd come to think of it, until long after dinner and a bottle of wine shared sitting on the floor before the fire.

"Top three pet peeves," she challenged now. Pursing his lips, he gave the matter consideration.

"Men who raise a hand to a woman of child, inedible food and sleeping cold," he rattled off. "Your turn." She hadn't needed time to mull her own answer.

"Liars, cheaters and misogynists. Favorite color?"

"Black," he answered definitively, then with a lift of his brow, qualified, "Or perhaps gray. Yours?"

"Turn right on Mission Street," she directed, "It should be three blocks down. Red and cream. Favorite movie."

"Without a doubt, _Casablanca,_ although I am a fan of just about any movie from the film noir genre."

"In less than a mile we'll turn right onto Bush Street," she advised, then frowned. " _Casablanca?_ "

" _Wonderful_ movie," he extolled. "Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains, Warner Brothers, 1942. Bogart plays a night club owner who protects an old love and her husband from the Nazis in World War II, although…" he held up a finger in emphasis "He and the old flame are still very much in love." He took his eyes off the road to glimpse at her. "You really must find the time to watch it."

"Alright, I will," she agreed. "Bush should be coming up in about four blocks."

"Yourself?"

" _Gone with the Wind._ It's my favorite movie of all time," she replied with a dreamy quality to her voice.

"I must say, you don't seem the type to appreciate the Antebellum South," he commented, as he turned onto Bush, "Where women are portrayed as helpless and subservient to the men."

"In less than a half mile we'll take a left onto Taylor followed by a quick right onto California, and the hotel should be right there." She scanned the area outside of the car. "Are you sure this address is correct? We're in Nob Hill." Nob Hill was one of the most swanky parts of San Francisco. She and the girls from Four East had come up to San Francisco for a day trip on a couple of occasions and this area was an 'admire but don't think you can afford anything here' zone.

"It's the address the travel agency provided," he shrugged. "I believe they said the name of the hotel is Mark Hopkins." Her brain sputtered to a stop.

"We're staying at the Mark Hopkins?" she squeaked. She looked at him as though he'd suddenly sprouted a second head and regaining her faculties crossed her arms in irritation. "You've been bamboozled by the travel agency, Mick," she stated adamantly.

"Bamboozled?" She forgot her train of thought, fascinated by the single brow he cocked at her. She blinked, and forced herself to focus.

"The Mark Hopkins is outrageously expensive. There are any number of hotels in San Francisco that won't cost a week's wage for a night's stay. We'll just cancel the reservation and find somewhere else to stay," she definitively declared.

"Is this Mark Hopkins a historic hotel?" he wondered.

"Yes, it is… and _very_ expensive," she emphasized again.

"Is it in the 'thick of things,' so to speak?" he pressed.

"Well, yes, but—"

"Is the hotel well maintained?"

"Well, yes, but—" She followed his eyeline as he studied the building now in front of them.

"Seems the travel agency didn't bamboozle me at all then," he replied, as he turned the Rabbit onto the circular drive in front of the hotel. Putting the car into park, he climbed out while she dropped her feet from the dash and sat up straight, prepared to argue further.

"Have our bags brought in, if you don't mind," he instructed the valet, then discretely offered the young man a tip in an exchange of handshakes, "And a little something for your troubles." The valet glanced at the twenty in his hand.

"Yes, sir!" was his enthusiastic response, then immediately flagged a porter to retrieve the bags stowed in the trunk while Mick rounded the car and opened the door for Laura. With no little reluctance she took his hand and stepped from the car.

"Mick—"

"Laura, it's one evening and I assure you it's not going to – how do you Yanks put it? – It's not going to 'break the bank,'" he assured. "I've not invited a young woman on holiday before, even if only for a night. Let's live a little, eh?" She studied his earnest face at length, her eyes narrowing on the amusement twinkling in his eyes, but then simply shrugged.

"Alright," she agreed, drawing out the word, but made no move to resist when he lay a hand on her back and guided her towards the front door of the hotel.

She tried not to gape when they stepped through the doors and into the opulent lobby with its soaring coffered ceilings and gold inlaid marble floors. Tried… But given the twinkle in his eyes as looked down at her, suspected she'd failed, miserably so.

"Would you mind watching for our luggage as I check us in?" he requested, indicating the registration desk on the left side of the mammoth lobby with a gesture of his arm.

"Not at all," she readily agreed, wanting some time to herself to adjust to the luxurious surroundings.

Keeping one eye peeled on the front door she took in the luxurious surroundings, admiring the massive crystal chandeliers, the Queen Anne tables, overstuffed chairs and sofas, and twenty-foot arched windows that flooded the lobby with light. She'd never imagined she'd ever stay in a place of such elegance, not only due to her own inclination towards frugality but, simply put, such an establishment was far outside of her family's reach. The tiny, petty side of herself couldn't help but think: _Wait until the girls hear about this!_ The thought had no sooner crossed her mind when the porter pushed a cart through the door of the lobby at the same time as Mick began striding her way, room key in hand.

In short order, the porter was swinging open a door on the eighteenth floor.

"After you," Mick invited with an arm outstretched towards the interior of the room.

Never had she been so glad to precede someone else into the room, as she was pretty sure her eyes nearly popped from their orbitals and one witnessed display of intimidation was one too many in her eyes.

He hadn't reserved them a room for the evening, but a suite. Decorated in blacks and creams with accents of midnight blues and golds, the room was elegant and positively stunning. Unable to resist, she crossed the room and parted drapes, then drew in an awestruck breath upon seeing the view of San Francisco laid out before her.

"In the master, if you don't mind," Mick directed the porter, then joined Laura at the window, taking in the vista over her shoulder. "I'm glad to see the Agency's description of the view was accurate," he observed. "The agent assured me we'd find the view off the parlor even more impressive. Shall we explore?"

"I can't imagine how it can get any better than _this_ ," she commented, but allowed the drapes to fall close, then walked to the door on the far side of the living area. "A full dining room?" she questioned, as she passed the solid cherry dining set, large enough to seat eight and proceeded to the next door. Swinging it open, she stutter-stepped at the scene past the wall of windows. He barely put the brakes on before crashing into her. "Oh my," she breathed, "The Golden Gate."

"It's not quite the Rialto in Venice or the Széchenyi Chain Bridge in Budapest, but it is still quite picturesque," he agreed.

"Venice? Budapest? Exactly how much do you travel?" she inquired as she turned to leave the room.

"Extensively, I've been on all the continents but one and doubt a lifetime is long enough to see all there is," he shared. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "But for now, San Francisco awaits us to come and explore. Given you seem to have visited this fair city previously, might I suggest you take charge of the afternoon, and I do so for the evening?" She stopped in the middle of the living room and despite the blank mask on his face, was fairly certain he had something up his sleeve for the evening. She held out a hand and waited until he clasped it in his.

"Deal."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Laura glanced at her watch, then back at the brochure she held in hand while Mick perused the ticket for their meal.

They'd arrived in San Francisco a little after ten, and thanks to Mick's foresight had been able to check into their room early for a surcharge – what that charge was, she honestly didn't want to know. By ten-thirty they were stepping onto a cable car and on their way. First up, had been an hour long sail along San Francisco's waterfront, under the majestic Golden Gate and around Alcatraz Island – a treat she could scarcely afford yet considered a must-see, made possible by the seldom used credit card. It had been worth every penny spent, as it had been terribly romantic as he'd spent much of the time standing behind her, arms braced against a rail and his chin resting on her shoulder as she spoke to him.

Next, a walking tour of Fisherman's Wharf where they'd window shopped and had browsed tourist brochures. She had thought they'd next visit Chinatown before tackling the daunting two-hundred-eighty-four foot climb up Telegraph Hill – a challenge that would be rewarded by stunning views of the city – and then would wrap up the day with a visit to China town and a tandem pedal-boat ride on Stow Lake.

Instead, as they'd lunched on Alioto's renowned New England Clam Chowder, fresh bread and refreshing glasses of iced tea, her thoughts had continued to return to one brochure in particular which boasted the newest tour San Francisco had to offer: The Dashiell Hammett walking tour, which promised to be a must-take for any film noir lover. And given their conversation earlier…

"Do you know who Dashiell Hammett is?" she asked as he withdrew three bills from his wallet and dropped them on the table.

"As a film connoisseur how could I not?" he replied, his eyes lighting at the man's mention. "Creator of Sam Spade, Nick and Nora, the Continental Op. I've spent many a blissful afternoon in old theaters watching _The Maltese Falcon, The Thin Man, The Glass Key,_ amongst others. Brilliant author whose works take you through many twists-and-turns and nail biting moments as his super sleuths unravel mysteries. Why do you ask?"

"What exactly are you planning for tonight?" she questioned. Question coming out of the blue as it had, she caught him off guard. He cleared his throat then took a long drink of tea to buy some time.

"Why do you think I've anything at all planned for the evening? Might I remind you I'm new to this city?" he punted. "I was thinking of asking the concierge for some recommendations." Her eyes narrowed.

"Now why don't I believe you?" she challenged. "Could it be your eagerness for me to plan the afternoon, while you took the evening?" She smirked at him, daring him to say she was wrong. He chose to evade.

"Shall we?" he asked, standing and offering her a hand.

"Actually, I'm just going to 'powder my nose.'" Ever the gentleman, he pulled out her chair for her. "I'll be right back."

"And I'll be waiting," he promised.

Laura locked herself in a stall in the bathroom and removed her wallet from her purse. Forty-two dollars. Being a new tour, the tickets were only ten dollars each. The Rabbit was great on gas, she calculated, and if she limited herself to a couple of pieces of fruit and water on the way back to Stanford, she'd have no need to use her card again. She still had a little over two hundred in the bank, and school was out for the summer in a little over three weeks. If she walked to all her classes, instead of taking the occasional drive to the furthest of buildings, limited herself to eating in the caf, then she'd have enough money to make the next credit card payment, to buy her sister a birthday present, buy her mother and grandmother Mother's day gifts and should still have enough for the gas she'd need to get to and from whatever summer job she found until she received her first paycheck.

Decision made, she left the stall, and took a moment to tuck back the strands of hair that had come loose from her French braid and to wash her hands.

In the dining room, Mick watched until Laura disappeared from view then flagged over the waiter to inquire where he might find a payphone. Standing in front of said phone, he dug out the appropriate change then dialed the number scribbled on a piece of paper he extracted from his wallet.

"Jonathan, please… Yes, I'll hold." He peered towards where Laura had disappeared to and nervously chewed on a thumb nail while awaiting the line to be answered. "Jonathan, Mick O'Leary. Do we have everything arranged?... Excellent, excellent. My appreciation will be reflected in your tip. My thanks to you, mate. Bye-bye."

He'd _just_ returned to his seat when Laura emerged from the back of the restaurant.

"Ready to continue the tour, then?" he asked.

"I am," she confirmed.

"So, where to next?" he inquired.

"You'll see," she answered, mysteriously.

They arrived at the starting point of the tour with only a few minutes left to buy tickets.

"A tour?" he wondered. "I thought you were to play our guide on the day." She lifted and dropped her shoulders as a pair of brown eyes shined up at him and a satisfied smile lit up her face.

"I was. Until I saw this." She handed him the brochure. Skimming it, he was rendered speechless. He couldn't recall a single instance in which someone had arranged something entirely with him in mind. Her face fell. "You don't like it." The despondent tone of her voice had him lifting his eyes.

"To the contrary. I'm beyond… touched," he assured, quietly, leaning in and bussing her on the cheek. Sincere blue eyes met pleased brown ones. "Thank you."

The tour began with a stop before the Flood Building where Hammett hired on with the Pinkerton Detective Agency when he first arrived, newly married in July 1921, then continued on with a look at John's Grill…

"Where Sam Spade took his meals on occasion in _The Maltese Falcon_ , Laura," he provided before their guide could utter the words. His head snapped around at the guide's next words:

"Hammett dined here on occasion," the man narrated, "Although he rarely ate, preferring a far more… liquid… medium. Do not believe the plaque hanging here," the man indicated said plaque with his hand. "Hammett did not write _The Maltese Falcon_ while dining within the walls of this establishment, a more accurate truth being both Hammett and Spade frequented the restaurant on occasion."

Mick groused about the plaque for the duration of the next three stops featuring places Hammett's The Op had once been. "The gall, Laura… why the plaque should be torn down… Truth in advertising, Laura. Is that too much to ask?" She listened with amusement sparkling in her brown eyes, for he took the tour so very serious.

At Geary Theater…

"Cairo and Spade met in front of this theater," he enthused, "When…" he snapped his fingers a couple of times, " _The Merchant of Venice_ was playing."

He stood staring up in awe at a 1920's skyscraper on Sutton Street which featured brown roof tiles and a green railing.

"The office of Sam Spade in _The Maltese Falcon_ ," he explained, utterly spellbound.

He looked with reverence down an alleyway on Burritt Street, fingered the marker on the wall there which read…

 _On approximately this spot, Miles Archer, partner of Sam Spade, was done in by Brigid O'Shaughnessy._

"Brigid O'Shaunnessy, a treacherous woman… a true femme fatale if ever there were one," he espoused.

Two hours later the tour ended at 891 Post Street, where the guide informed them…

"And it is here, in his home, that Hammett wrote _The Maltese Falcon._ "

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Laura asked, tearing his attention away from the home as he imagined Hammett penning the novel that would later become the movie in which Humphrey Bogart starred.

"It was remarkable… utterly remarkable. I shall never forget it," he praised. If his words weren't enough to convince her, the way he snaked an arm around her waist and tugged her to him for a sweet kiss would have been. When the lips parted, she caressed his neck with a hand, then stepped back and checked her watch.

"What time do we need to be back at the hotel to get ready?"

"I should think six o'clock would give us enough time." Her pleased smirk tipped him off to what he'd done: He'd revealed he did, indeed, have something planned for them.

"Think you're clever, do you?" he teased.

"It's all in the timing, Mick," she boasted, turning to walk down the street towards the nearest streetcar location. "So what are we doing this evening?"

"Have something else in mind for this afternoon?" he asked in answer, as he fell into step beside her.

"Pedal boats on Stow Lake? Wine tasting at the Press Club? Check out Chinatown? Oysters and drinks at Sam's Grill?" She slanted her eyes towards him, an innocent look on her face. "Unless, of course, the last would ruin our dinner." He chuckled at her tenacity even as he quickly assessed the evening's timeline. Something to tide them over would likely be a wise course, given the hour of their dinner reservations.

"Oysters and drinks, I think," he replied, his smile widening when she huffed out a breath at his avoidance.

"You're not worried the oysters might run your plans?" she tried one last time.

"Is there a reason that I should be?" He couldn't resist tweaking her further.

"They say oysters are aphrodisiacs," she commented casually. "I may just have to test that theory, then where will your plans for the evening be?"

This time it wasn't a quiet chuckle that passed his lips but a full out laugh. Snatching her to him, her eyes widening when he did so, he pressed a hard, quick kiss to her lips, then spun her away.

"Laura, you are going to be a handful for some man one day," he predicted.

"Not if he falls in line," was her quick retort.

 _Aye, the lass is going to give some bloke a run for his money one day, for certain_ , he acknowledged.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Be certain to check comments all, as we will wrap up Hold Out Holt tomorrow night and that means weighing in. ~RSteele82**_


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N: It would have helped a great deal if I'd remembered to upload it on Wednesday night. sigh**_

* * *

Chapter 21

"What is this?" Laura asked, indicating the large white box wrapped with a bright red bow, lying in the middle of the bed in the master suite. Mick shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned his backside against the dresser, crossing his legs at the ankles while smiling wide.

"Why don't you open it and see," he suggested. Sitting on the bed, she reached over and fingered a tail of the velvet bow but neither moved the package closer to her nor opened it.

"What's this for?" she questioned. One corner of his mouth quirk up higher.

"If you open it, I imagine it will be self-explanatory." Still fingering the bow, her eyes never left him.

"It wouldn't be for the plans you hadn't made for this evening, would it?" she indicted. _Bloody hell, the lass tickles me. Never gives so much as an inch._ He laughed aloud.

"You know it is," he conceded. Stubbornly, she held her ground.

"That puts me at a distinct disadvantage, Mick," she noted, with a lift of her brows. She caught him off-guard with that remark.

"Oh? How is that?"

"I didn't get you anything," she pointed out.

"Of course you did. A sail around the bay and the magnificent tour," he countered, then with a lift of a brow of his own directed at the box, said again, "Open the box, Laura."

For long seconds, she continued to stare at him, then seeming to have come to some form of compromise with herself, picked up the box, sat it on her lap, removed the bow and opened the lid. Her eyes flickered from the envelope sitting atop the pink tissue paper, to him, then back to the envelope when his face gave nothing, whatsoever, away. Lifting the flap, she extracted two, thick, rectangular pieces of paper.

Her head snapped up and she looked at him with disbelief.

"The ballet? You're taking me to the ballet?" she asked, not bothering to conceal the soft wonder in her voice.

"Followed by dinner and drinks, yes," he confirmed with a grin, utterly enchanted by her reaction. "What else do we have?" he asked with a nod towards the box.

Laying the tickets on the bed next to her, she peeled back the tissue and gasped. Setting the box aside, she stood and lifted the red, floor length spaghetti strap gown from the box to admire it, then paired it with the cape that complemented the dress to perfection. She didn't even wish to hazard a guess at the cost, certain that it easily rivaled their night's stay at the Mark Hopkins. Draping the dress over the side of the bed, she found undergarments that considered the cut of the dress, stockings, and a box yielded a pair of shoes that matched the gown. As a thought occurred to her, her smile faltered then turned into a frown.

"What? What is it?" he asked with concern. "Do you not care for it?"

"It's beautiful," she assured him.

"Yet you seem to disapprove," he observed. She lifted a hand and dropped it.

"Not disapprove, exactly," she corrected. Then elaborated, ruefully, "I suppose I'm not used to a man dressing me and I don't know how I feel about it, to be honest."

"Would it help to know a man didn't dress you? There are people all across large cities paid well to put together a wardrobe on demand. I merely provided your size and a suggestion on the color." The last earned a curious look.

"And how would you know my size?" He had the decency to look a bit chagrined.

"I may have glanced into your suitcase as you were getting ready this morning." She gave her head a single nod.

"I see." She scanned the room. "Given I don't see anything that's been delivered for you, what will you wear?"

"I was taught to be prepared for any contingency, even when I travel," he shared. "I've something with me." She assessed him for a long second, then a smile slowly lit her face as she recalled his words from earlier in the day.

"Let's live a little, huh?" she echoed those words.

"Let's live a little," he confirmed.

"Then what's say we start getting ready."

* * *

The ballet – a pas de deux, _Four Norwegian Moods_ , had been amazing, all that Laura had ever imagined, and she'd been held spellbound throughout the performance. Mick, on the other hand, had watched her as much as he had the stage. The pure joy on her face made her even lovelier than she already was and he spent a good deal of time marveling at how fate had seen to it their paths crossed.

He'd been correct in his color choice for her gown, for she was positively... stunning. A quick trip to a store nearby as they'd dressed for the evening had allowed her to pin her hair up, highlighting her elegant neck, making his fingers fairly itch to caress it. It had taken him three days to answer the question that had chased him from the first moment of their meeting…

 _What is it about the lass?_

She was an intoxicating mixture of the warmth of the sunshine and the heat of a roaring fire. She was free-spirited, yet grounded. He'd caught glimpses of her stubborn nature now and again, yet she was remarkably, willingly compliant in others. She was intelligent and intuitive. Most of all, unlike all the people in his life to date, he needn't wonder what her angle was, for with her what you saw was what you got. It was utterly refreshing.

That she seemed oblivious to how lovely she was only added to her allure. Together, they continually drew the eye of passerby, and not a single time did she primp or preen – something he himself was prone to doing, flattered that after a lifetime of being invisible to those around him he was now being seen. But while he was certain the looks of admiration coming from some of the women when they entered a room were for him alone – just as there were some men who looked at Laura with lascivious thoughts in mind – far and away it was they, as a together, who drew people's stares.

As they were doing now as they walked through the doors of Marty's…

* * *

Laura simply couldn't wipe the smile off her face. The ballet had been… magical. Yes, magical, that was the only way to describe it. So much so, that she'd had to resist the impulse to call out 'Encore! Encore!' at its end. She could see it a half dozen times… a dozen… a hundred and never tire of it.

She'd remember this night forever.

Including how the man beside her looked.

She'd been bowled over when Mick had appeared in their suite wearing a tuxedo. She didn't know a single boy or man who owned a tux, let alone who would travel with one. He'd taken her breath away. It was no wonder that everywhere they'd gone that evening people's eyes had been fully upon him – most notably those of the women, whose salacious looks had suggested they'd like to take him to bed and devour him.

He'd known it, too, every once in a while meeting a woman's eyes with his own and giving her an almost indistinguishable nod.

And there it was again, as they walked across the dining room in Marty's.

"Does it ever bother you?" she wondered, aloud, as he eased her chair forward.

"Does what ever bother me?" he asked in return, as he took the seat across from her. She turned her head and looked around the room.

"That half the women in this room are looking at you as though they want you for their next meal," she answered bluntly. His eyes followed the trek hers had taken. He lifted a shoulder and dropped it.

"You've a fair share of men who look at you much the same." She straightened slightly and laughed.

"I do not!" she proclaimed. Just as he'd suspected, she'd no idea the effect her natural beauty and grace had upon the men within her vicinity.

"A pair right now, as a matter of fact," he disputed. "Two tables to your left, in the tan leisure suit and at the bar, the gentleman in the navy pinstripe." She surreptitiously glanced at the men he'd pointed out. He wasn't wrong. She crinkled her nose in distaste. "Not your type?" he guessed with a smile.

Conversation paused when their waiter arrived at the table.

"Would you mind if I do the ordering?" he requested. The woman sitting across from him was the independent sort and might take umbrage at such an assumption. She closed the menu she hadn't even glanced at with finality.

"By all means, have at it," she agreed, easily.

"Mozarella marinara to start, followed by veal piccata – not to heavy on the lemon butter, if you don't mind – with linguine in clam sauce. A bottle of Dom Perignon, as well," he recited, then eyed Laura for approval.

"Sounds wonderful," she agreed with a wide smile.

"I'll be back momentarily with your champagne," the waiter intoned, then disappeared.

"You don't approve of your admirers, I take it," he prompted.

"The man in the leisure suit is wearing a wedding ring, as is the woman with him," she assessed. "I feel sorry for _her_ , actually. As for the man at the bar," she shifted her eyes for another look, "He's attractive enough, I suppose, but what he looks like doesn't matter."

"Oh, why's that? One would think finding another person attractive was an essential ingredient to accepting an invitation of any sort," he debated.

"It doesn't matter how attractive someone is if they lack substance," she argued. "Take yourself, for instance. Did I find you attractive when we first met? Yes, I did. But had you been a creep, I wouldn't have given you the time of day."

There was a lull in the conversation as their waiter returned with the champagne. The couple shared a smile as the cork was popped and the fizzing liquid was poured expertly into a pair of crystal flutes. Once again, the waiter disappeared as unobtrusively as he'd arrived.

"To chance meetings?" he proposed, then lifting a single brow at her added, "And not being a creep?" Her eyes sparkled with delight and her laughter tinkled musically in the air.

"To chance meetings," she echoed, lifting her glass and tapping it to his. She sighed a little as the cool, bubbly liquid slid over her tongue and down her throat. "I'm really beginning to enjoy champagne."

"What's not to enjoy?" he wondered, still smiling. "You were saying you think the poor chap is a creep?"

"Poor…" she sputtered, then shaking her head and giving him an amused smile, she took another sip of her champagne before answering. "In the two minutes since you pointed him out to me, he's winked at me, and has given me the 'come hither' tilt of his head, both of which show a lack of good manners and class." She turned and openly looked at pinstripe casting upon him a look that clearly read 'get lost.' He scowled in return and faced the other way, looking for someone new to bestow his attentions on.

"You, Laura, are a woman of fascinating contradictions," he mused. "You don't know if you believe in marriage, yet you are a devotee to the concept of monogamy."

"I take it you're not?" He shrugged a shoulder.

"I've never seen proof that fidelity of any kind at all exists," he shared. "Not to a partner, a spouse… not even to one's own family. It seems a fleeting fancy, at best."

They fell silent as their mozzarella marina and plates were set before them, and their glasses of champagne were set down before them.

"It seems to becoming less and less common, I'll give you that, but I've seen some instances. My sister and her husband, come to mind," she continued the conversation as though uninterrupted. "Frances and Donald have been together five years, married three, have a two-year-old son and one-year-old daughter." She took a bite of her mozzarella marinara. "These are good," she complimented.

"Mmmm, yes they are," he agreed. "You believe they'll beat the odds." Her brows furrowed slightly as she mulled the question.

"Yeah, I do. Frances can be as high strung and neurotic as they come, but she thinks Donald walks on water and Donald not only loves her in spite of her flaws, but maybe as much because of them." He looked up at her through his lashes as he took another bite of his food, a smile playing on his lips.

"You seem to like him a great deal," he observed.

"Yeah, I do," she confirmed, fondly.

"And you think he'll never stray?" The question made her laugh aloud.

"Donald?" she said his name as though the very idea was absurd. "Not a chance. Not only does he believe the sun rises and sets on my sister, but he is anything but a smooth operator. Frankly, I'm not sure either of them would be able to function without the other anymore."

"Tell me about your sister. Are you close?..."


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

During dinner Laura had regaled Mick with stories of her older sister with the vivid imagination. They had laughed often while taking their fill on the rich, Italian fare.

Much to her surprise, their evening hadn't ended when they'd returned to the Mark Hopkins. When they'd stepped into the elevator he'd punched the button for the nineteenth floor with purpose.

"Wrong floor, Mick," she corrected and reached out to press the button for the eighteenth floor. He captured her hand in his and raised it to his mouth to press a kiss upon the knuckles.

"Trust me, Laura, it's the right floor." She looked at him askance, but didn't pursue the matter further.

He couldn't resist watching her face as the elevator doors slid open. Walls of glass fronted all four sides of the lounge, offering a three-hundred-sixty degree panoramic view of the bright lights of the San Francisco skyline, set against an inky sky. The view was breathtaking, and the look of awe on her face was dazzling.

They had danced for more than an hour, enjoying the live music, the stunning scenery and each other. As time wore on, simple shifts of a hand to a new comfortable resting place became soft caresses and soon they were sharing a series of soft, chaste kisses as they danced. Eventually, the sensuality of it all became too much. It was she, not he, who suggested they journey a story down to their room.

They'd barely entered the room when he captured her face between his hands, and took their formerly chaste kisses to a new level as he walked her backward until her back was pressed against the wall. Their first coupling was urgent, driven by the champagne, the music, the romantic view, those sensual caresses and the kisses shared. They'd stripped one another right there by the door, carelessly allowing their clothes to fall where ever they might. She'd been beyond thankful he'd had a condom stuffed in his wallet. He'd taken her right there in the living room, drapes wide open, the skyline in full view, her back pressed against the wall and legs wrapped around his waist. Once they found their bliss, he'd carried her over to lay before the fire – ignited by nothing more than a flick of a switch - and after a bit of housekeeping, had stretched out on his back next to her. Without though she scooted closer to him, and laying her head beneath his shoulder, flinging a leg over his hips, had catnapped there in his arms.

When her eyes blinked open some twenty minutes later, it was to find a pair of blue eyes staring down at her, amusement dancing in them.

"Perhaps we should get some sleep, hmmmm?" he suggested. "It's well after one and I arranged a six o'clock wake up call so we might enjoy a bit of breakfast before departing for the airport." A pair of chocolate eyes regarded him solemnly, and he couldn't have missed the quiet desire lying in their depths.

"I'll sleep when I get back to school tomorrow," she declined. She twirled circles with her fingertips in the matte of hair on his chest. "And you'll sleep on the plane." With fluid grace, she straddled his hips and leaned over him, her lips hovering over his, shivering when his hands stroked her hips. "I can think of something I'd much rather be doing than sleeping," she murmured next to his ear, before touching her lips against his neck.

"Ahhh, you just wish to use me for my body," he teased. Lifting her head, a pair of somber brown eyes caught hold of a pair of blue eyes twinkling with humor.

"What I wish, is not to lose a single moment of the time we have left together," she corrected. Then a pert smile lifted her lips, and her eyes glimmered with mischievousness. "Your body just happens to be a bonus… If you can keep up that is." His bark of laughter bounced off the walls.

"Keep up?" he repeated, disbelievingly. "I'll show you keeping up."

With that, he flipped her to her back and smothered her laughter with his mouth pressed to hers.

* * *

Morning had arrived far too soon, Laura reflected, as she walked Mick to his gate at San Francisco International Airport. They'd done the deed there in the living room then had taken a long soak in the Jacuzzi tub, before he'd introduced her to the erotic pleasure of sex with the added element of jetted water. They hadn't needed the wake up call, because as dawn had begun to light the horizon, they'd partaken of one another one last time on the sofa in the parlor, watching the colored sky highlight the Golden Gate and panoramic view of the city.

She'd paid the price for all their shenanigans , too. She was sore - very sore - her body never having been so well used by a man. She'd likely walk funny for a week, but it had been worth it… and she took some comfort in the fact that Mick was feeling its aftereffects a bit as well.

The time to say goodbye had come too soon. She'd gone into their brief affair with open eyes, no illusions. Still, she'd missed him, their easy camaraderie… the laughter. It had been, in her assessment, the best weekend of her entire life.

She stood and faced him, when boarding for first class was called, and tilted her head back to bestow him with a dazzling smile. He, in turn stroked her cheek with the backs of a pair of fingers.

"We'll always have Big Sur, eh?" he smiled down at her. She laughed quietly.

"I guess we will," she agreed.

"I can't think of a time I've enjoyed myself quite so much," he admitted softly.

"I was thinking the same, just a little bit ago," she made her own confession.

"Come with me," he invited impulsively, unsure even as he said the words where they'd come from. He as a man who not only appreciated his solitary journey but strived to maintain that status. "We'll take a week in Paris, see the sites…" He leaned down until his forehead was nearly touching hers "…take in a performance at Opera Bastille," he tempted. And tempting the offer was she found. A week in Paris. _Can you imagine? With Mick?_ But reason prevailed.

"You don't have to do that, Mick," she told him with a shake of her head.

"I know I don't have to. I _want_ to," he corrected, earnestly. She pressed a kiss to his cheek then took a step back.

"We both knew going in what this was: No more than a weekend tryst," she reasoned, quietly. With a soft smile she palmed his cheek. "We have lives to get back to: Your job, my school. As much as I might wish it was different… as much as we both might like to just fly off to Paris… you know I'm right." A smile lifted his lips, even as he nodded regretfully.

"An epoch romance movie," he mused, embracing her waist and drawing her closer. "Two people whose path should have never crossed, yet do, engaged in a brief, torrid affair, only for reality to intrude and force them to bid one another adieu." She slid her hands over his chest, and clasped her hands behind his neck.

"I'll never regret it," she smiled up at him. He leaned forward and bussed her on the forehead, allowing his lips linger for a long heartbeat.

"Neither will I," he answered, against her skin. Leaning back, he lifted her chin with a pair of fingers beneath it. "Drive _safely_ ," he admonished.

"Travel well," she replied in turn.

With a slow shake of his head, he bent down and they exchanged a lingering kiss. When their lips parted, they stepped away from one another and he reached down to hoist his overnight back up and slung it over his shoulder. He couldn't help the laugh that crossed his lips.

"You are going to be some blokes greatest challenge. A part of me wishes that bloke were me. Goodbye, Laura." He couldn't resist a final brush of his lips against hers.

"Bye, Mick."

She watched as he strode purposefully towards the gate, smiling at him when he took a final look at her over his shoulder and held up a hand in what some might consider a wave. She lifted her hand similarly, then with a quick purse of his lips in her direction, he disappeared down the jetway.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

By the time Laura dragged herself into her dorm room at Stanford, she was beyond exhausted, scrubbing at her eyes with a fist now and then, trying to stay away so she could unpack before crawling under her sheets. Dirty clothes were tossed unceremoniously into her hamper, her two new gowns hung over the back of a desk chair – later in the afternoon she'd go by the dry cleaners and sweet talk the out of a bang she could hang the clothes in to protect them. Toiletries were returned to the shelf above her desk, and couple of remaining condoms and their box were stowed in the top drawer of her desk.

Yanking back the covers on her twin bed, she flopped down face first onto her pillow and yanked those same covers back over her head.

She fell asleep almost instantly, thinking about a pair of twinkling, bright blue eyes and a slightly crooked, amused smile.

* * *

Mick punched at the pillow provided by the stewardess and wedged it next to the window. Staring out, he didn't see the wispy clouds through which the plane was flying, seeing instead a pair of glimmering brown eyes, an impudent smile and cinnamon sugar sprinkled over skin.

The urge to get on another plane as soon as this one landed and return to California was almost overwhelming. He'd never known anyone quite like her and doubted he ever would again. Somehow, when he hadn't been paying attention, the girl had gotten completely under his skin and that there paths would never again cross left him feeling a loss akin to the one he'd felt as he'd watched one hopeful childhood home after another disappear in the dust of the dirt roads as he'd been driven off to the next.

The realization that he had feelings – very real feelings - for Laura had been a stunning one, especially coming when it had: In the midst of making love to her.

 _Making love to her._

Him.

Never had he done such before. A quick, pleasurable shag. That was his only aim. In and out, forgive the pun, and get away clean. That was his rule.

And he'd broken it.

Had been unable to keep from breaking it, the pull towards her had been so strong.

There, in the glass surrounded parlor, as the rising sun had lit the skies in yellow, oranges, reds and blues as it had chased away the night, he hadn't prolonged his own pleasure to make sure she found hers, for she already had. He'd wanted one more taste of her lips; to lave another freckle… then another. He'd _needed_ to feel his body cradled snuggly in the warmth of hers for longer. He couldn't resist suckling upon the puckered peak of a breast just… one… more… time. Her every sigh, her every mumble, her every touch demanded he wait for just… a… little… bit… longer. When realized his control was slipping, he yearned for nothing more than to feel her body contracting around him one last time, and had slipped his hand between their bodies, his fingers between her damp folds, where he's stroked the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden there, almost desperately. Only when her back arched, her legs slid downwards and locked around his and she cried out her pleasure, had he buried his shaft as deeply as he possibly could and allowed his own climax to wash over him, breathing deeply of her scent and he panted her name in the crook of her neck.

It had been the singularly most satisfying sexual experience of his life… with a girl who'd been an innocent only a few short days before.

He supposed a better man would feel some guilt for that, bedding an innocent all whilst knowing there would be no chance of a future for the two of them. But whatever remorse he'd felt at the moment of discovery, had long ago disappeared. He'd had to have her. Then again. Each time their bodies merged, he'd needed just one… more… time.

The thought of never having her again, made something deep in his belly clench.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to put her out of her mind.

Still, his last thought as sleep stole him away was of a pair of warm brown eyes, a petite frame held within his arms, and the smell of springtime in his nose.

* * *

Laura tossed and turned in her sleep, seeking a warmth that she couldn't find. In only a few days time, she'd become used to Mick's warmth beneath her or behind her when she slept. That she was dreaming of the evening they'd danced on the terrace, made his loss all the more pronounced. So much so, she could have sworn she heard him calling to her in her dreams as though he was a long, long distance away.

"Laura…"

Her brow furrowed, as he suddenly disappeared, leaving her twirling on the terrace alone.

"Mick…" she mumbled in her sleep.

"Laura!" A loud, screeching voice that by was by no means similar to Mick's smooth tenor and a hand shaking her roughly jarred her from her sleep.

She pried red, itchy eyes open.

"What!" she snapped, irritated to have been pulled from the dream... and Mick.

"Laura, where have you _been?_ " Betsy demanded to know, as she plopped unceremoniously down on the side of Laura's bed. Sitting up, Laura drew her hands through her hair and tried to orient herself.

"With Mick," she finally answered. "I left you a note."

" _Your note_ , said you'd be back yesterday!" Betsy replied an accusatory note in her voice. "The girls and I were beginning to wonder if you'd driven the Rabbit off of a canyon somewhere. You know what a crazy driver you are."

"I'm a _good_ driver," Laura protested, irritably.

"The girls!" Betsy cried out, then launched herself off the bed. An instant later, she flung open the door to their room with enough exuberance the knob slammed into the wall, making Laura wince. If Betsy's enthusiasm had put a hole in the wall, they'd both be cited and the fine would eat into what were now very meager savings. "Barb! Joanna!" Betsy yelled across the common living area in the suite towards the room the other two girls' room. "Laura's back!"

In a heartbeat the sound of another door careening into a wall could be heard, and before Laura could get her bearings Joanna and Barb poured into the room.

"What the hell, Laura!" Barb demanded. "We were getting ready to call the highway patrol and have them start looking for the Rabbit. Where have you been?" Laura's chin ticked up a notch and she crossed her arms in front of her.

"I'm a _good_ driver," she snapped.

"No, you're not," Betsy and Joann disagreed in unison.

"Crazy and good aren't synonyms, Laura," Barb brushed off her defense. "Now where the hell have you been? We've been worried sick." Laura scowled at the other girl.

"With Mick," she answered, stubbornly refusing to say more while she was under attack. Barb, the psych major did a quick reassessment. You didn't get anywhere with Laura using a frontal attack. She looked around the room while she considered a new approach. Then she saw it. Snatching the red gown Laura had worn in San Francisco, she openly gaped at it.

"You have a _Chanel_?" Laura couldn't recall a single time when anyone might describe Barb as dumbstruck, but in this moment she was exactly that. Laura's shoulders relaxed slightly even as Joanna joined Barb, mouth hanging open.

"I don't know if the dress is a Chanel or not. It was a gift from Mick," she answered begrudgingly, as she watched picked up the white dress she'd worn in Big Sur.

"Did he get you this too? It's beautiful," she oozed.

"No, I bought that myself in Big Sur," she answered Joanna with a smile as _she_ hadn't offended her like Barb had. Barb spun around to look at her.

"You were in Big Sur all this time?" Betsy asked. With a smile towards her roommate, Laura sat fully up in bed, and pulled her legs into the Indian-style sitting position.

"Most of the time," she confirmed. "Yesterday we drove up to San Francisco." She looked in Barb's direction. "Mick left some money on the kitchen counter at your folk's place for the champagne we drank." Barb waved her off. She didn't care what they used at the house, but she wanted details.

"And the gowns?" she pressed.

"I bet him he couldn't pull off the perfect romantic evening with what he found in the house and no more than ten dollars," she supplied, her irritation lessening with Barb. "I bought the white dress for that evening." She looked at Betsy and Joanna, who'd returned to sit on the bed opposite Laura's. "We had fondue and champagne before the fire, and waltzed the night away on the terrace," she shared, in a dreamy voice.

"And the red dress?" Barb inquired, plopping down on the end of Laura's bed.

"Mick suggested he postpone his flight for a day and that we spend it seeing the sites of San Francisco," Laura smiled, then couldn't help boasting, "We stayed at the Mark Hopkins in the California suite."

"The _Mark Hopkins?_ " Barb repeated, clearly impressed, her low whistle emphasizing her feelings.

"We toured the city during the day, then last night Mick surprised me with tickets to the ballet," Laura continued, "Followed by dinner at Marty's and dancing at Top of the Mark." Betsy sighed, wistfully.

"I'm so jealous," she confessed. "Boys around here think romance is buying you your own beer at the football game." Joanna rolled her eyes at Betsy.

"Let's get to the good part," she urged. "How was the sex?" Her eyes narrowed on Laura's face. "You _did_ have sex didn't you?" How Laura managed to avoid bushing to the root of her hair she didn't know, and she silently thanked Mick for having inadvertently giving her an escape route. She shook her head slowly.

"If I didn't go into detail last summer, why would I now?" she challenged. Joanna growled aloud her aggravation.

"C'mon, Laura, we tell _you,_ " Joanna prodded and complained jointly.

"This is different," Laura rebuffed. "It's not some one night stand. It's… Well, it's Mick. It's… private." Barb studied her at length. Long enough that she began to squirm under the examination.

"Do you love him?" she finally asked. It wasn't a question Laura had any intention of answering, especially given she'd asked herself several times on the drive from San Francisco to Palo Alto. To her dismay, despite her resolve to view the weekend as nothing but a little fun with a very definite expiration date, she expected she'd fallen for the man… at least a little. With resolve, she shoved the thought aside.

"I can honestly say, I've never enjoyed myself with _anyone_ else, like I do with him and I care for him, a great deal," she explained. "The simple fact is, his life is in Europe and mine is here. We've said our goodbyes and won't be seeing each other again."

"That's so sad." Betsy drew out each word, underscoring her feelings that the situation was just short of a tragedy.

"I agree, but sad or not, that's just how it is." It was time, in Laura's eyes, to change the subject. Her time with Mick was hers to cherish and she'd shared all she was willing too. "Did I miss much in Lit this morning, Bets?"

"Professor Schumer assigned our final paper: An analysis of the symbolism found in _Lord of the Flies_." She and Laura shared a look of profound distaste for the book of choice.

"You did miss something huge, though, Laura," Joanna chimed in.

"Oh, what did I miss?" she wondered, more than ready to move to the safer topic of gossip.

"Brad Cooper was stabbed on Saturday night," Betsy blurted out, unable to resist. Joanna scowled at the other girl for stealing her thunder. Laura's eyes widened slightly at the news.

" _He was?_ " she elongated each of the words.

"Can you believe it?" Joanna asked. "The poor guy gets beat up on Thursday night, and then stabbed on Saturday night." Laura's nose crinkled in distaste at the reference of 'poor' Brad.

"Is he alive?" she wondered.

"Yeah," Barb stepped in. "But he had to get a bunch of stitches in his face and side. "

"Did they catch the person who did it?" Laura asked, although she really didn't particularly care. He was alive and if he had a few scars, oh well. God only knew she had her own scars, that couldn't be seen, and after his attack upon her, he'd done his best to make her life hell.

"You know that weird, mousy girl in your Calc class?" Joanna stepped in.

"Amelia?" Laura wondered, then automatically defended, as she'd done any times in the past, "She's not weird or mousy. She's actually a very pretty girl, just very shy." Barb snorted at her response, while Joanna openly laughed.

"And bat ass crazy," Joanna commented.

"She is not!" Laura defended.

"Yeah, she is," the other three answered in unison.

"She's the one who stabbed Brad," Joanna explained, far too smugly for Laura's taste. A chill skittered down her spine.

"As if he'd even look twice at her," Barb snared.

"What do you mean?" Laura looked at Barb then the other girls.

"She claimed she was defending herself when Brad tried to rape her." Joanna snorted, derisively. Laura's back straightened and she felt suddenly sick to her stomach. "As if."

Laura's mind raced. Amelia was a sweet, sheltered, timid girl. To think that she'd found herself in that position and now was the focus of gossip an derision across campus. She lifted on hand to worry her brow, while the other clenched her bed covers, her knuckles whitening. Who would defend Amelia? Brad was a popular guy on campus, while she was seen exactly as Joanna had described: Mousy… and a nerd. The cards were stacked against her. No one would believe her. Unless…

"Brad could have any girl on campus," Barb snarked. "Rape!"

"it's bad enough what she did to him, but then to say that?" Betsy added with a sad shake of her head.

"He did it to me," she said so quietly, it not only bordered on a whisper but only Barb sputtered to a stopped her chatter and stared at her, mouth agape. Barb's reaction went unnoticed by Laura as humiliation flushed her skin, and her hands began to shake at the memory.

"Bat ass crazy, like I said," Joanna continued.

"Crazy," Betsy concurred. "Thank God he wasn't hurt any worse than he was I mean—poor Brad, first that attack and then—"

"What did you say, Laura!" Barb demanded loudly, instantly silencing the other two girls who stared at the leader of the pack. Laura's eyes flicked upwards to look at Barb, then her face crumpled. Her hand moved from her brow to cover her eyes. She averted her face from the girls while trying to find some control. Barb moved to sit next to Laura and wrapped her arm around her shoulders, while Betsy and Joanna continued to watch in silence, confusion written all over their faces. "Laura, what did you just say?" Barb asked in a rare, soft voice.

She blinked her eyes several times, managed to ward off the tears, but couldn't quell the way she shook, as the memories of what had occurred her in this room, on this bed swamped her. Dropping her hand from over her eyes, she hung her head, afraid once she fully confessed, she'd be branded 'bat ass crazy' just as Amelia had been. She'd worked so hard for the life she had at Stanford, to have the friends she did. The thought of losing all of it terrified her, but if she could help Amelia…

"The night we left the frat party together. Here." She fingered her bed. "He tried to rape me."

"Laura, no!" Betsy cried out, catapulting off her bed to join Laura on hers, and clutching her friend's hands in hers.

"It can't be true," Joanna said in dazed disbelief. Laura's temper surged and fury flashed it her eyes.

"It is!" she retorted, angrily. "I said no! I said no over, and over again! He held me down. He ripped off my underwear, bit my breast. He forced me to touch him, pried my legs apart. Told me I wasn't going to tease him like all the other guys. I pulled his hair as hard as I could until he screamed, then kneed him where it counts. My baseball bat helped convince him it was _time for him to leave!_ I warned him to _never_ come near me again. All those nights I was at the library studying, Bets?" Her roommate nodded her head when Laura looked at her. "I wasn't at the library. I was taking a self-defense course, so if it ever happens again, I'll know what to do!"

"Laura, I didn't mean…" Joanna stumbled, standing then joining her on her bed with the other girls, "I mean… It's _Brad Cooper_. We know him. How couldn't we know he was such a creep?"

"He's not just a creep, he's a menace," Laura declared, passionately. "If he did it to me, to Amelia, who else has he done it to? Even worse, how many times has he succeeded and girls are just too… too… afraid, _ashamed_ to report him, like I was? He thinks because he's a jock an fraternity brother he can do whatever he wants and get away with it. _And he can!_ Look at what he did to me at the party the other night! Getting all his friends together to _humiliate me_!" Shaking herself free of Barb's arm, she stood and walked towards her closet. "Who defended e? _No one_ but _Mick_! Hell, my _three best friends_ stood right here in this room and said I'd developed a reputation of being a tease." She stripped off her shirt and tossed it in the hamper.

"Laura—" Barb attempted to speak, only to find herself quickly cut off.

"NO!" Laura barked, then facing her closet rummaged through it. "I told Brad never to come near me again. So when he grabbed me on the dance floor, I broke his nose. _Still_ , it _didn't get through to him_! He bragged to Mick about what he'd done, and Mick beat him up for his troubles. _Still, it didn't get through to him!_ " She yanked on her blouse almost violently then stripped off her shorts and yanked a pair of slacks from a hanger. "Now, poor Amelia. I won't be able to live with myself if she goes to jail for defending herself or if he does it again." Zipping her slacks, she walked towards the door while button her shirt.

"Laura, where are you going?" Barb called at her back. Laura spun around and faced the threesome, determination written all over her face.

"The police, to do what I should have done in the first place."

"Laura, wait!" Betsy called. Bounding across the room, she linked her arm through Laura's. "I'll go with you." Laura gave her friend and roommate a look of pure gratitude. Seeing it, Barb and Joanna exchanged glances, then stood.

"We're going, too," Barb announced.

"Are you sure?" Laura challenged. Joanna approached Laura and slung an arm over her shoulders.

"Of course we are. We're the girls of Four East, Laura. You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

That night, as Laura lay in bed, she didn't spend those pre-sleeping minutes dwelling on the nearly two hours of often humiliating questions she'd endured at the police's hands. She didn't devote time to mulling over the fact that the charges against Amelia had been dropped given Laura and another Stanford student had come forward or that Brad now was the one sitting in a cell, charged with sexual battery, rape, three counts of sexual assaults, along with another half dozen charges. She allowed herself only a brief few seconds to say a silent thank you that the Girls of Four East had stood by her when she'd needed them most.

No, her thoughts were on Mick.

Had he managed to get any sleep on his flight? Had he arrived in London already? Was he even in London, or was that just a stop on his way to another destination? Had he noticed, yet, that he was shy one t-shirt – the very one she was wearing as she as curled up in bed right now?

Was he thinking of her, at all?

Bending her head down and tugging the collar of the shirt upwards, she inhaled deeply of his scent then closed her eyes, wishing she could pick up the phone and hear his voice just one more time. It was wholly an impossibility, of course. London was a very large city, and not only had she no idea where he was staying, when the thought had first occurred to her, she'd realized she'd never even asked his last name.

She sighed deepy.

That night she dreamt she and the man without a name were dancing along the banks of the Seine.

* * *

Mick stood in his room at Claridge's next to the open window, enjoying the cool, early morning breeze that left the white sheers billowing. He'd landed at Heathrow shortly after nine o'clock in the evening, California time, or five o'clock the next morning, London time. Now, a little more than an hour-and-a-half later, he stood with a tumbler of scotch in hand – courtesy of the room's fully stocked bar – staring out over Brook Street as the city began to wake.

His eyes might be upon the activity on the London street but his thoughts were more than five-thousand miles away.

Had Laura arrived home safely after driving several hours with only a few minutes of sleep snatched throughout the night? Was that Cooper bugger steering clear of her, or was he already planning his next tactical assault? How was she feeling after their long night of bedroom antics?

Not for the first time since his arrival, he glanced towards the phone and recognized the futility of wishing he could call to see how she was faring… to hear her lyrical voice one… last… time. But, he hadn't paid attention to the name or address of her dormitory and he'd been halfway across the Atlantic when he realized he'd never once asked her last name.

Knocking back the last of the scotch, he closed the window then set his empty tumbler on a table. Unzipping the suitcase laying on the bed, he searched through it, pulling out a pair of cotton lounge pants and then digging through it for his t-shirt. Frowning, he emptied the suitcase piece-by-piece, clearly remembering having dropped the shirt in the case in Big Sur. When the suitcase lay empty before him, he chuckled low in his throat, for there was only one explanation for what had happened to that shirt: Laura had nicked it.

After a quick shower, he closed the drapes, darkening the room, then wearily crawled into bed. As he waited for sleep to claim him, he pictured his shirt laying against Laura's bare skin, wishing it were him wrapped around her instead, and wondered how long it would take to get the lass out of his blood.


End file.
